Week 3: Typewrote Festal Killdeer

Shadows flickered and danced on the wall of the the narrow hall, growing sharper and more distinct as the light moved closer to the bend. There was a large hunched figure, and a thin one, grossly elongated in the flickering of the torchlight. The air was stale and the ceiling was encrusted with soot.

“Where is this place?” Boomed one voice, smooth and silky.

“It’s just a little farther, Sir” croaked the the other, his voice echoing and mixing with the sounds of his own shuffling feet and the sharp clack of the tall one’s hard soled shoes. The figures rounded the corner, and continued along the corridor. Behind the homespun-clad hunchback walked the tall man with the smooth voice. He wore a dark pinstriped suit, and somehow, it did not look out of place in the dingy dungeon. He commanded the air around him, the sort of man who could wear a clown suit to a funeral and remain dignified and serious.

The hunchback stopped in front of a rusty iron door set in the side of the corridor.

“Here is it, Sir.” He said, bobbing up and down next to it.

“Thank you. You’ve provided most useful.” replied the silky man, turning to the door. He paused, still facing the door, then said “There’s no need to wait, I can find my own way back.”

He dipped into his pocket and brought something out, concealed in his long pale fingers.

The hunchback coughed slightly and with a rasping weaselly voice said, “Sir, there was the matter of the... reward?”

“Yes, I nearly forgot. Your... Reward.” replied the serious man “Here it is.” and he held out his hand.

The hunchback quickly placed the torch in a ring set in the wall and extended his own hand, cupped beneath the sinister claw. It snapped open, and a small ball of powder blue fluff dropped into the gnarled hand.

The only sound in the corridor was the crackling of the torch.
“Is this some kind of a joke, sir?” Said the short man, after a pause.

“Oh believe me, nothing could be more serious.” came the reply through unsmiling lips.

The hunchback looked as if he was about to speak again, but the tall man cut him off.

“This is no worthless ball of cotton. It is, in fact, one of the last of a nearly extinct species.” he plucked the ball of fur from the still outstretched hand. “This” he said, stroking it softly, “Is a sand bore.”

The little ball let out a squeak, hopped a little, and suddenly opened one emerald eye, staring from between the fingers of the tall man and into the face of the hunchback. He gasped and stared back. The eye seemed to give off a luminescent gleam in the darkness of the hall.

“I thought these were a fairy tale” he said in a grating whisper.

“They’re quite real. Though the price that one of these would fetch is the stuff of fantasy.”

“May I?” the hand twitched greedily.

The claw like hand opened, but pulled away as the hunchback reached for the prize. “Are you sure you want it? They can be hard to take care of. Very hungry. Very needy. You might find it to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

The hunchback scoffed and snatched the ball from the pale white palm. “I won’t have to take care of it for long.”

“No, I imagine you won’t.” said the tall man and turned back to the door, reaching into his pocket again.

“Ah, sir,” came a sudden query, “What does a... ‘sand bore’ eat?”

“Who, Peter?” said the suited man absently, “He’ll eat any old thing.” and snapped his fingers.

The ball of fur split down the middle in a comical grin- Comical until the furry lips receded and displayed row upon row of razor sharp teeth.

The suited man drew a complex iron key out of his pocket and placed it in the lock on the door. “It’s a funny thing,” he said, speaking loud over the screams of the hunchback, “The fairy tales never seem to mention that.”

The screams faded, and the tall man bent, whistling softly. The ball hopped over, its blue fur stained crimson.

“Clean yourself.” He ordered it austerely.

The bore blinked, and then turned itself inside out, puffing up in a poison green poof of clean dry fur.

“Good boy.” said the tall man in response, picking up his murderous pet and setting him on his shoulder. He turned the key silently and pushed open the door, plucking the torch from its bracket and proceeding through the doorway, leaving behind a grisly scene in the corridor.

The suited man paused as he passed through the door, drawing the key from the lock and closing it behind him. The room he had entered was oppressively silent after the echos of the hallway. Away from the door a narrow walkway extended into the darkness, suspended by means magical or mechanical over a hungry abyss. The darkness of the room hungrily pressed in around the figure at the door, but he brushed it away with a wave of his torch and strode confidently across the bridge towards the center of the room. A few moments later, he arrived at a raised dais.

Climbing a spiral stair of cast iron, he reached the top and smiled. On the center of the dais, there was a large and smoothly polished marble altar. Over the block was spread a scarlet cloth, and beside it on either side were tall incense burners.  In the dead center of the diamond of cloth there was a metal box made of dull black tin. The torch cast flickering shadows across the table, shadows of dancing spectres and demons.

The sinister man stepped to the table and touched the torch to the incense burners. They flared and popped before smoldering and sending wafts of smoke heavenward. He extinguished the torch in a bowl of sand and, walking around the table, sat in the leather chair, pulling himself close to the altar. Peter hopped down onto the surface and set his glowing eye on the box.

The man produced a slim shining key from inside his jacket and slid it into the silver keyhole in the front of the box.

He paused, breathing deeply, savoring the moment. What lay under this box was priceless. A treasure that had laid locked away for centuries. Only God knew how much blood had been spilled to arrive at this moment. The the mechanisms inside the lock clicked and whirred as he turned the key, and the case shuddered as the latch sprung free. Calmly, the man lifted the case and placed it aside. The treasure that had been sought after for so long, the secret that had been kept for so many years, lay exposed.

There on the center of the altar sat a typewriter.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the man stretched out a hand and stroked the keys of the beautiful machine. It was black and silver, unfathomably old, yet not cracked or faded. He took a sheet of paper from beneath the machine and slowly wound it into the slide.

With a reverence born of religion, he placed both hands on the keys, and hesitated then typed a word, slowly at first, then with sudden intensity. With a flourish, he pressed the final key and slid the carriage back to its home position. He stared at the paper in suspense. One word was written there. “killdeer”

He wound the paper out of the typewriter and placed it on the altar, smoothing it down onto the surface of the stone. For a moment, nothing happened, then the corners of the paper picked themselves up and the white sheet folded itself intricately into a small, multifaceted bird. The final fold was made and it faded out of paper and into reality.

There, hopping on the altar, was a very real and perfectly detailed killdeer. The typist held out his hand and the bird stepped on. Man and bird stared at each other for a few seconds, and Peter licked its lips.

The bird saw Peter’s teeth and flew into the air, chirruping and flying around the dark room. At this, the severe looking man burst into joyful laughter and returned to his typewriter, typing sheets and replacing them in a frenzy, filling the room with lights, screaming eagles, flying angler-fish and stingrays, all manner of birds, fairies and fantastic creatures. A lion’s roar heralded the creation of a chimera. Peter sprang around the altar and dais in a multicolored frenzy, excited beyond reason at the abundance of flying meat just out of reach.

In the center of it all sat the man at the altar, fingers hammering away at the typewriter, as though at an organ or a honkey tonk piano in some old bar, composing new fantasia and replaying old, laughing all the while.

The Grimm Shoe: A snapshot in history

[Excerpt taken from the Grimmtek. Archives]

“Are you a couch potato? Have you ever wanted to be able to dance, but never been able to put in the time to learn? Do you want to be able to impress the ladies with your crazy dancing skills? If so, the Grimm Shoe is the Implant for you. This modern marvel utilizes nanotechnology, implanting a microchip directly in the brain stem. With this implant, you no longer have to worry about your own dancing, because the Grimm Shoe will take care of it for you. Just think of a movement, and the Grimm Shoe will match it to one of over nine thousand dance moves in its extensive databank. It then sends neurological signals to your legs, arms and other relevant muscle groups, causing them to move, and you to hop, skip or jump your way across the floor with the skill of a pro, with the time commitment you love.”

[Excerpt from “Grimm Shoe: More Trouble than it's Worth?” NYTimes]

The Grimm Shoe is a sensation that's been literally sweeping the nation off it's feet. This ingenious little implant can transform even guys and girls with two left feet into dancers of amazing grace and skill, but is it all it's chalked up to be? About only a week after the release of the Shoe, Grimm started receiving its first complaints from customers. One unexpected effect of the shoe was the provoking of the heat detecting nerves in the body, primarily those of the feet and legs. Some people are unable to stop themselves from dancing. The Artificial Intelligence imbedded in one batch of the Shoe was faulty and was beginning to go out of control, randomly sending dancing signals to the legs of these users. Mostly, these incidents were harmless and isolated, until the Shoe caused postal worker Phil Williams to swerve into the oncoming traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge, causing a massive pileup and the death of four. Due to a public outcry at this, Grimmtek. recalled all their Shoe implants, updating the software and adding protective measures to prevent the chip from sending unwanted signals. Since then, there have been no reports of faulty chips, but the question of everyone's mind is, “Will we have another Philliams?”

[Excerpt from “The End of 21^st Century Technology” by R. J. Thomas]

It didn't take long for the Grimm Shoe to regain popularity, even after the incident with Phil Williams. Grimmtek placed guarantee after guarantee behind their implant, spent over 200 hours testing and retesting its safety and Peter Grimm, the CEO and founder of the company, had the chip installed in himself to show the world that he was confident in his creation. His confidence was misplaced. On March 4, 2023, a computer virus was released for the chip and spread via wireless uplink, establishing itself in every implant. Stage one of the virus was silent and stealthy, unobtrusively entering the chip though a loophole in a logic gate. The virus was not detected until 12:00PM when it entered stage two. Around the world, three hundred and twenty million [320,000,000] people stood up and began to dance. Within minutes, hundreds of thousands were dead, as planes crashed and automobiles swerved off bridges and roads. At 12:05PM, emergency phone lines were flooded with calls about burning feet as the virus stimulated the heat sensing nerves in the lower body. Five hours later, stage three of the virus started. At 5:00PM, a tragically simple program took effect, and all over the world, though primarily in Japan, America and Europe, millions of exhausted people began to climb to the highest heights they could find, and throw themselves off. At 6:00PM, its task complete, the virus deactivated. A fraction of the implantees were able to survive, due to living in areas without high heights. The terrorists behind the virus were never caught or identified, and the purpose of the attack was never discovered. This event started the movement away from high technology and computers. Automated systems all around the world were shut down for fear of a repeat attack, and the main work force became human once more.

Week 2: Parboil Individualistic Boloney

[Disclaimer: This story? It has nothing to do with the title, whatsoever! xD]

I was standing on a pure white beach. A beautiful blue sky came down and touched shallow, and stunningly turquoise, water.
“Huh” I eloquently verbalized to myself, and began to walk. The bright sun felt good on my bare shoulders; an excellent change from the frigid temperatures of the dark and dreary Vermont January I had been experiencing lately. I kept walking, moving to where the water lapped the sand in beautiful frothy arcs and letting it course back and forth over my toes. I sighed a happy and contented sigh. I was truly warm for the first time since August.

I laughed and did a little jig, jumping and twirling, and immediately fell flat on my face in the wet sand. Surprised, I giggled a little, and laughed outright, my face still in the sand. Of course, then I pictured what I looked like in my head, a shirtless young man, laying in the wet sand as shallow waves broke around me, laughing like a complete lunatic, and the idea only made the laughing worse. Eventually, I calmed down and looked up. Right into the hugely bulbous nose of an oddly familiar looking golden man. I giggled and realized it was my own reflection, grossly distorted in something... ...brass.

I sat up, excited, as visions of a genie in a lamp flashed before my eyes (for some reason, the idea did not strike me as improbable or impossible) but as I looked at it I realized it was not a lamp at all, but... A tuba. I scratched my head. Shrugging, I picked it up and gave it a gentle rub. Nothing happened so I tried the obvious next thing, and blew into it. A terrible rattling noise came from the horn and when I upend it, a strangely nondescript ring fell out.

I picked it up from the sand and looked at it, this way and that, then slid it on my finger. I don’t know what exactly I was expecting, whether I’d turn invisible or into a rock or suddenly feel stronger, but certainly not this weird feeling of utter normality. I picked up the tuba again and continued down the beach, blowing into it and making the oddest noises. I skipped and honked and honked and skipped, and suddenly I was flying and it didn’t make sense at all, but was glorious!

Anyway, that was when I woke up.

Yeah, it was a dream. I was so excited about it too. Oh well. Such is life.

I climbed out of bed and left for the bathroom. It was business as usual until I started brushing my teeth. An unusual gleam of gold in the cabinet behind me caught my eye. I looked over my shoulder to get a better look, but there was nothing gold on the shelf. I shrugged and looked back, continuing to brush and saw it again! A definite gleam from the front of the shelf. I squinted at the mirror, trying to get a better look. It was still unclear. I decided that it must be the way the light was hitting the object and bouncing through the mirror that allowed me to see it, which is why I was unable to see it without the mirror.

Using the mirror as my guide, I carefully stepped backwards and reached for the object on the shelf behind me. I felt my hand close on something, and I stepped back to the mirror and the light to better see it. I opened my hand, and lying on my palm was- an old walnut shell. I blinked. I decided that I must have imagined the glint, and was about to throw the shell away when I glanced in the mirror and gasped.

My reflection was holding, not a dull brown shell, but a shining golden ring. I moved closer and brought the ring in the mirror up to my eyes. There was no mistaking it, it was the same ring from my dream. My jaw fell and I looked at my reflection. The boy in the mirror stared back, but his mouth was firmly closed below mischievously twinkling eyes. My own eyes widened and he just nodded. I tilted my head, perplexed, and he chuckled.

“What the heck?” I said aloud. The boy in the mirror shrugged and put a hand to his ear, signing his inability to hear. I laughed and pointed at his hand, the one holding the ring. He held it up and turned it in the light, admiring it, then looked back at me, teasing. I mimed flying, the way i had in my dream, and he laughed, lifted off the ground and slowly spun end over end in the small room, putting a thumb to his nose and sticking out his tongue. I held up my own hand, containing the walnut, and, on a whim, pressed it against the glass of the mirror. To my surprise, while the glass stopped my fingers, the walnut dropped through to the other side. Starting forward, the boy dropped to the ground and caught the falling nut, a look of panic on his face. He immediately tried to force the nut back through the glass but it stopped just as my fingers had. He groaned, terrified, and looked at the ring on his finger.

Something weird begin to happen. His finger began to stretch, and around the ring, a haze of black and purple particles began to swarm. It looked like the ring was sucking the hand into itself. Scrabbling at his hand, the boy tried to get the ring off his finger, but it was stubbornly stuck. The lights in the room through the mirror began to flicker and dim, and one bulb burst, showering sparks and shards of broken glass.

I watched, horrified at what I had caused, as a gruesome scene began to unfold. The boy had a firm grip on the ring, and was tugging with all his might. His arm stretched and his muscles warped like a cartoon as a black hole formed around the ring, pulling at the fabric of his world, distorting the lines of the room. I thought for sure that he was doomed, but, with an effort born of desperation, he at last managed to claw the ring from his finger. He struggled towards me, carrying the ring which seemed to not want to move from where it had started reacting. I realized, too late, that he was going to force the ring and the ever consuming black hole through to my world!

I panicked and looked around for something with which to smash the mirror. A large metal soap holder sat on the sink, and I snatched it up, swinging it at the window to the collapsing world on the other side. The boy screamed and lunged at me, hand outstretched and the ring at the end of his fingers. In slow motion I watched him suspended in the air, electricity arcing from the ring to the rest of the room. The boy’s face- my own- was full of hate, but was superseded with despair and terror. The metal construction traced its way across the room towards the mirror. Even as it left my hand, I wondered if I was condemning a planet to destruction. The boy and the soap rack hit the mirror at the same time.

The glass shattered and fell away, exposing the wall where it had been hung, but as it fractured, a golden ring shot out and into the sink behind me. I quickly turned and looked, expecting the same black hole, but the ring lay there, completely inert.

I picked it up and examined it closely, wondering what was going on and what had happened to the world in the mirror.

Week 1: Vouchsafe Discountable Hectogram

The story itself is completely unrelated to the prompt, but I figure that's O.K., because the whole point was to get me to write, and write anything! I look forward to writing again! And now, Dystopia.

Turning her drenched collar up against the downpour, Lilah pushed her way up the high-street, towards the small shop near the top of the hill. Water ran down the sidewalk in streams, breaking against the tips of her boots and pouring off the side. The gutters, unused to such volumes of water, had been overcome. The water, with no place else to go, simply fled lower and lower, finding a hollow, a rut, or a pool, filling it and then overflowing, running on to the next until everything was soaked, until everything was flooded. Miserably, Lilah plodded quickly onward, fighting the constant rain.

By the second day, the roof of her apartment building, unused to such conditions, had begun to leak. Now the rain had been steadily falling for four days and many roofs, hers included, had fallen in, driving people by the dozens onto the streets to look for shelter.

The doors to the other levels of the city had been closed down. Lilah thought of her cousins living in tier #1, somewhere below her. How she had looked down on them for being poor, for being stuck so near the mines and forges. Stuck listening to the infernal clanging and banging, the hissing steam, roaring drills and huge thudding hammers that made the ground shake. Stuck in the heat. Suddenly shivering violently, she cursed at the numbingly cold water and at herself. How many times she had declined their invitations to visit, coming up with wild excuses or ignoring them all together. What she would give to be with them right now, in the warm, dry, loud house she had grown up in and left as soon as she was able. It would be dry; the pumps were working on the lower levels, she could feel them constantly, a low throbbing.

As she walked she grew more frozen and soaked. The council had no right to do this to her or to the thousands of other everyday Second-level citizens being equally affected by the artificial rain. It had driven her out of her home, out of the relative comfort she had. She had watched the water build up against the mill where she worked until one wall buckled and gave in and it began to fill until, like a balloon, it burst, carrying bricks and machines, bundles of clothes and tools and everything else on a brown tide down the street. Now, her only possession the clothes on her back, she turned hopelessly to the only saving force she could think of, the resistance. It was only to suppress the resistance and punish its followers that the rain had been started, and now, because of its apocalyptic pouring, people were flocking to the one place they knew would not turn them away. In half a week, the rain had done more towards solidifying the people of T2 against the council than in twelve years of diligent resistance work.

Finally, Lilah reached the small shop. Yanking the door open, she stumbled inside and struggled to close it against the water now streaming inside and into a drain. A burly arm reached past her and pulled the door forcefully shut, and the roar of the rain and the gurgling of the water on the streets dissipated to a surprisingly low mumble. Turning, Lilah found herself face to face with Peter, the proprietor of the shop. “Lilah girl, quickly, come in! You look half dead!” he spoke concernedly, quickly taking her coat and handing it to his nephew, who hung it to dry. In one smooth motion, he spun a chair away from a table and into place next to the blazing radiator, then pushed the exhausted girl into the warm wood, sliding the chair to face the life-giving heat. A steaming mug was forced into her hands, and Lilah noticed, for the first time, the conglomeration of soaked and bedraggled friends, neighbors, and coworkers all gathered in the heat. “I guess it pays to invest in a strong roof, eh?” he said, awkwardly concealing his worry in joviality before retreating, shuffling into the back room.

For a few minutes, the room was silent as Lilah soaked in the warmth of the room. The mug brought life into her numbed hands and she took a drink, coughing at the harshness of the strong unsweetened tea, but still vaguely delighted at the heat now spreading through her from within. Within a few minutes, she was drifting off to sleep, finally warm, finally safe. She would have to venture out again to contact the resistance, but for now, thought Lilah, she was content to sleep.