Teenage dreams had given way to boring adulthood. Then I saw this advert “Scared to live? We offer seven days without worry about possible futures.” It was free and I literally had nothing interesting that evening, so I went.
Woke up with this watch and a note saying the bomb inside me would explode in seven days. Doctors agree something’s lodged in my brain but it’s too risky to operate.
Anyway, best get on.
Put the fucking money in the bag or I’ll blow your shitting head off!
Joy weaves together hymns in praise of feeling rather than deconstructing poetry with evidence that words cannot be other than a structure around anything of actual meaning, elegantly capturing both the power of language to show reality and its failure. …
Karl connected the repeater and stepped back. Fifteen seconds later, the window exploded. His breathing spiked as tiny drones swarmed through the hole. Pushing down images of neat holes in foreheads, he sent a message to all his contacts calling the President ugly.
The swarm drifted randomly as his contacts responded. He was right: no matter how good the machine learning was, social media tracking was useless if your desired targets only used strong encryption.
Which meant that only ordinary people, people like his mother just wanting to ask if he was caught up in that “robot thing”, got hit.
The steel felt good beneath his hands, each blow echoing like a confirmation of existence.
Knowledge had built the world around him, and given him the tools to understand what he felt and why. But knowledge wasn’t a tap in the barrel of his chest to drain away the adrenaline poisoning his taste and spasming his muscles.
Fight or flight. One can neither run from problems of words and thoughts, nor defeat them with a weapon.
He knew when the pain from others faded, the pain in his knuckles would seem failure; but the steel felt good beneath his hands.
Anderson mixes his thoughts on why collaborations work, or don’t, with anecdotes from the many collaborations he has undertaken, creating a book that shows the reader the potential complexities of partnering with other authors without becoming dry or depressing. …
Aurelius strode gracefully. Halloween was the perfect time of the year; men almost stood out more if they didn’t wear make-up or ape horrors. A time to hunt without the fear his appearance might reveal him. And even a few days after costume parties let him hide in sight.
Tonight it ended though. Tomorrow the fireworks with their searing lights and deafening sounds would mark another year of lurking.
Ahead his prey staggered and stopped almost perfectly for the alley he’d selected.
Samhain, All Hallows Eve, Halloween. Names change, but the image of the dead dancing endured.
And we did. Not a macabre dance but dance nevertheless. Because the gates opened for those who’d fulfilled their final task, accepted loved ones would survive without them, realised they deserved release.
But the key was always the living. We need you to help, to warn, to watch.
Bombs fell and kept falling, turning you into us. Your bunker is all that remains. You do not know it yet, but your filter has failed. You will not stay the year.