writesomethingeverynothing

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170923

We believe introduction of the artifact into popular devices will dramatically assist us in furthering our goals. To this end, we have designed and commenced production and distribution of a modified fidget cube. Superficially the fidget cubes are indistinguishable from standard, commercially available products. Inside of each of our fidget cubes is a miniature lament configuration, magnetically suspended. The various dials on the faces of the cube are attached to magnets within. Their movement applies slight pressure to the faces of the lament configuration, inducing its discrete and occasional rearrangement.

Simulations indicate that the half-life of gate generation is ~27 months, assuming continuous use of the cube at an averaged human rate of hand movement. This is very much dependant on the user's preference for use of different facets of the cube; further research is required to correlate this to gate opening half-life. We accelerated the rate of hand movement to permit rapid data generation.

To prevent full knowledge of the intention of the simulation and design experiment, two teams were hired to generate the simulation. A group of engineering and digital design students were used to produced separate components of the lament configuration simulation in modules assigned to each individual. Two students were assigned the task of generating software to auto-compile these individual modules into the full lament configuration. This approach was employed in case this group was selected by cenobytes for collection on the basis of their involvement in cube production, as we wished to avoid loss of useful employees. A more experienced team of internal staff produced the simulation representing the magnetic induction of force to the cube via magnetic fields, based on the fidget cube architecture. A student was chosen by lot to activate the simulation, which was programmed to reset and randomised after each gate opening event.

Unfortunately we misinterpreted the cenobyte selection criteria. Two groups were selected by the cenobytes on occasion of the first gate opening event (22min into the simulation). The first is the individual who commenced the simulation, presumably because he was identified as the individual who 'opened the box'. However, in addition to this individual, every member of the team who designed the artifact-fidget cube interface aspect of the simulation were simultaneously selected. We believe that their design of the magnetic interface was considered equivalent to application of force to the cube, ie. as a contribution to gate opening.

Despite this loss of capable staff, three valuable insights have been gleaned from this incident. The first regards the mode of action if the cenobytes. Distinct groups of cenobyte individuals appeared to collect each of the team members. 3 to 7 cenobytes appeared per individual, and each cenobyte group ignored the other groups and individuals. It therefore appears that cenobytes are generally assigned to specific individuals. Further, 33 distinct cenobytes were identified, which is the greatest recorded number to have been seen in a single instance. Finally, only some of the gate opening events caused cenobyte materialisation. After the first event, teams of 21-33 cenobytes continued to appear on occasion of the following 6 gate opening events. They abducted no individuals after the initial gate opening event. On their second appearance they appeared confused and left within 48s. On following materialisations they appeared variously frustrated and angry. Following the 7th gate opening event cenobyte materialisations became infrequent. From this point, an individual cenobyte appeared at a mean rate of once in every 11 gate opening events. The same cenobyte appeared each time. This specific cenobyte did not appear during the initial 7 gate opening events, and as far as we are aware this cenobyte had not been observed before this study. The cenobyte in question could be described as a broad, tall metal pillar with a disfigured upper torso and head attached. The head was malformed to the extent that no sensory apparatus was visible. Full details of its appearance and behaviour can be found in the accompanying report.

The most significant finding of this report is that digital architecture can be used to induce gate opening. This has major implications for our work. Firstly, our lament simulation can be duplicated trivially and is as effective as physical artifacts. This renders physical lament configurations obsolete and indicates that distribution of appropriate software may be used to further our aims. Secondly, this study indicates that randomisation of lament configuration movement may not be required. A computer is incapable of generating truly random numbers, and so the simulations were effectively pre-determined; in essence, the computer was programmed to directly open a gate, albeit via a convoluted route. Hence, a simpler program that directly solves a simulated lament configuration is expected to be capable of gate opening in a significantly shorter timeframe, estimated at 17ms. Opening events could be directly programmed into software to activate at the press of a button. This principle could be applied to programs and applications, spam emails and hyperlinks, and other forms of mass digital distribution, either to induce widespread gate opening or to target specific individuals. Our group is currently working on demonstrating this principle, and on production of a simplified lament simulation for integration into popular games. We would like to propose that this imporved lament simulation be referred to as "Quate's Box" in tribute to the head of the team lost during this study.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170921

You've heard of Elf on the Shelf but have you heard the tap-tap-tapping of wooden feet on the floorboards at midnight? Was that a glint of steel you just saw in the corner of your bedroom?

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170905

<I>A key benefit of having some level of temporal magic efficiency is the ability to induce proactive hexes. This modifies the requirement that spells be timed carefully so as to appear as natural events in order to avoid detection as abberant phenomenae. Suppose, for example, that you wish to ensure that all traffic lights you approach happen to be green, permitting swift passage on an important journey. Rather than casting appropriate mechanical hexes periodically throughout your temporal route to ensure appropriate timing of light changes, a moderately skilled tempora can cast the hexes in advance of the trip, yet have them 'occur' at the appropriate moments. Further, and perhaps more usefully, a less skilled tempora can cast such spells after his journey, ensuring the timing of the hexes are appropriately placed in his sin-temporal route.

Proactive hexes do not result in observable paradoxes. In all observed cases hexes implementing in the present have a root in the future that does not fail to occur (or in the past, naturally). This has significant implications in temporal studies, but that is beyond the remit of this text.</I>

- Bennett's Introductory Physical Science, 8ed.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170904

"They had to give us timekeeping somehow, y'see, so what they did was they wired us to the internal clock and added some confounding factors, a few variables based on seemingly random junk; the numeric value for the colour currently in a given quadrant of your eye, for example, or the number of times you've blinked today divided by a given integer. Not that, obviously. But, well, maybe that. Something <I>like</I> that.

"But the code's not isolated, y'see. We can access it. We do, some of us develop the ability to access it all the time, or after just a few minor confounding variables have been applied. That's why you know when it's half twelve without a watch; why you get that gut feel precisely when the microwave's about to finish warming up your coffee and get back to the kitchen precisley as it dings. They didn't isolate the code and, well, they can't change it now. That would loose them aeons of spent runtime. Human error- Uh, I mean, errors happen, y'know?"

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170903

"Did he see me?" He was observing from his house, standing naked, carefully watching the subject of his affection as he tended the flowerbeds. "Did he look my way? Oh my gosh, he's looking, he's looking at oh wait no he's just checking his gladioli..." He took off his gardening gloves and headed indoors. The admirer was dismayed, but not wholly. He wouldn't give up. He <I>would</I> be noticed. He stretched his legs and got to the task of unravelling his web from between the echiums. He'd build a bigger, better one, right up in the sunflowers. He'd definitely be noticed next time. <3

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170902

Finally, after <b>[duration]</b> of labour, after <b>[number]</b> of false starts, <b>[name]</b> had successfully <b>[activity]</b>.

At this point the <b>[noun]</b> <b>[verb]</b>d, <b>[verb]</b>ing his <b>[noun]</b> <b>[adjective]</b>ly. He died of <b>[noun]</b>.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170901

Softly, gently. Lyrics on sound, under sound too, weaving. Layers beneath. And there, the twang of a finger drawing up a guitar string. That means there's a guitar somewhere under the surface. Yeah, just there, subtle, in the distance, under the water just shimmering slightly like little sliver fishes.

I've seen cities submerged in water. I couldn't swim down far enough to see more than the tallest spires. Just glimpses of effigies on the turrets, the only indication of what was there before.

The music is like that. There are deeper layers, out of earshot. You can see them if you keep looking though. Layers of beauty and meaning, what was inscribed here. What came before.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170831

The champagne bottles had burst during take-off. Just before He passed out.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. There were no clocks in the cabin. The TV didn’t work and His Twitter terminal only showed His posts, no-one else’s, and they weren’t time-stamped. Just a small window to see the Earth, to measure the passage of time.

He’d shat himself, during take-off he thought. He’d changed into a fresh suit but the cabin still stank. He hadn’t put on a tie. He didn’t know how to tie it.

He was hungry again. He’d eaten most of the food. He guessed about two days had passed. It felt that long, and Earth looked an awfully long way away. He couldn’t see the sun. He guessed it was behind the shuttle. If He’d known a little about astrology He would have realised that He could approximate the passage of time by observing the movement of the sun’s light over the planet. He would also realise that less than a day had passed, and that He was a a very long way away from the sun. None of this occurred to Him.

He’d try to get back to sleep. He didn’t think He’d manage. He wouldn’t admit it to himself but the fear was building strong and steady.

He’d always known He was a self-made man. He’d never considered how much of His life and His success was made possible by the goodwill of others. He was starting to see how much of the world that He took for granted and that He saw as rightfully His to enjoy was actually created and maintained and owned by others, not big people like Himself but small people too, by a society we collectively create and each depend on. For the first time in His life He was considering whether abusing a society is the same as abusing people, individual people, en masse.

He tore the wrapper off a Mars bar and shoved it down his throat, with that thought.

It would be fine, it would be fine. He was POTUS, He was a self-made man, He was loved, He could do anything. He would be fine.

“Nearly at the sun. Great day for the US.” He tweeted. He smiled to himself.

The staff in the control room on Earth smiled too. They were receiving his “tweets” in real-time.

They popped open a fresh bottle of champagne.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170829

Every morning she trudged up the steps to the castle, pack on her back, and passed the guards with no difficulty. That meant she belonged there. But there are different forms of belonging, she thought. Perhaps some were better than others. The castle was full of others who has been permitted entry. The Lords of the kingdom selected constituents on a number of criteria. All of these people surpassed the intellectual capabilities of their peers in some way or other, and so they were assigned access to an appropriate keep or castle, for a time at least. The dukes, relatively established and well learned, would oversee aspects of the kingdom's management from the castles. Their squires would work to this end, as required by their dukes. The Lords' primary aim was to keep the kingdom alive and prosperous. This primarily required attracting denizens and maintaining a strong position among the kindgoms through trade and cooperation. As such, only the most capable individuals were offered posts here. She was not convinced that she was such an individual. She had spent a long time travelling here, much had happened. She didn't feel she was the woman she had once been. And she recalled that the woman she once was, despite her strengths and capability, had experienced these same doubts before, many times. Her family arrived as refugees. Throughout her youth she'd kept her refugee status hidden, knowing the stigma that came with it. Her parents did the same. She's surpressed her naturally accent, donned their clothes and their attitudes. The self she presented was wholly other to her actual self. This was not a wholly contemplated act. It was conditioned. She knew the risks of letting her accent slip, expressing an 'inaporopriate' sentiment. She'd heard of the things done to other refugees, violent, sick things. This was survival as much as... As much as cowardice. She saw it that way sometimes, cowardice. She should not have, but she did. She was afraid. That was long ago and these lands were more tolerant. She could express her heritage and herself here. In principle. Practically, decades of conditioning are hard to displace. When you've been forced to hide yourself for fear of persecution self-expression among strangers becomes hard. Even talking to strangers becomes hard. Even talking to acquaintences. Often, taking to friends. Trust is hard to assume when it's been such a risky trait in the past. So, she expressed her heritage, certainly. Not overtly, but she would wear the scarfs and traditional attire, would quite strongly express sentiments in support of the persecuted. These actions were easier. These actions didn't reflect on her own self so much as on moralities and cultures she knew and loved. Expressing herself, however, was a different matter. Small talk was unbearable; she was too afraid of saying the wrong thing. Decades of fear of being picked out as anything other than normal has made her deadly afraid of doing anything to make her appear even slightly unorthodox. Equally, expressing her ideas was extremely difficult. In her psyche, being criticised was associated with being discovered, which in turn was equatable with persecution. This was not cognitive reasoning, it was an automatic hind-brain response, uncontrollable anxiety that stifled her speech. Fear. For her, conversation was a fearful thing. Especially among such functional people. This self-doubt made her feel wholly out of place in the castle. These people, they were pristine, undamaged. They operated in a way she could not. She knew her mind well but these people both knew their minds and could express their minds quite openly. What a privelege that would be. She knew this was a generalised stance. Doubtless others would have their own stigma. For herself, though... She no longer felt this kingdom was for her. It was not the place she had imagined it to be. She had hoped to help in the maintenance and expansion of a worthy realm, but this place had no room for people who weren't sufficiently perfect. She loved herself, truly and without reservation, but she felt confident thay she did not have the form required to function within this machine. Nor, at this point, the desire to. She had found safety in this land. That, in itself, was a wonder. That allowed for finding others of her lost nation, for exploring her past, her commonality with others of her creed, for forming relationships with others in which she could be honest and open about her life and beliefs. This land was hers now. She would leave this castle, this kingdom, and find another. She would find a better place in this land.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170829

It was a beautiful day in Gevenne. A humid 28°C, bright blue skies, a warm, moist see breeze flowing through the city. Good day to catch a show. He knew just the spot. Shit. Two cops were strolling towards him. They hadn't seen him, they were chatting over hot Yesapos. If he just kept walking, nearly past them... Just a few feet.. Nope, shit, they'd seen him. Their lenses flashed, taking a snapshot to match against the database and, yup, they knew who he was. One raised his hand, opened his mouth, but he was past them before they had a chance to chat and running up the street. This would be easier if he wasn't hauling the radio. He knew they'd be pursuing but he wasn't concerned, not really. On foot they had no chance. The traffic was heavy but slow, easy to weave, and he knew the backstreets. Plenty of obscure turns in this old part of the city. He went for the radio tower. That would be the risky part, the climb. He'd be in clear view above the city for a good five minutes or so, easy to spot if the goons were still following him. But waste any time hiding out and he'd miss part of the show. He dragged himself over the wall. There, in the middle of a small brickwork square, the comms tower. Delapidated and out of use but still safe to climb, still functional should the city need it. Climbing with the radio was pretty tough going. Halfway up he spotted the cops down below, off in the distance, back to strolling the high street with fresh Yesapos. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know that? He hooked his harness onto the ladder, took a short breather. The breeze sure felt good up there. At the top was a platform, easily big enough to stretch out on, and an old tarp for shade. He'd already stashed some water up there. He could stay a while. He unpacked the radio, rigged it to the mast. There were stil a few minutes to go until the show. The radio would work anywhere, even in the basement. But the atmos in a basement isn't befitting of a good show. Up here, the whole city laid out below him, the sounds and the scents, the sea... I mean, you could see right to the next island from up here. A million miles from everyone, everything, sat right in the middle of the city. The show was starting. He layed back and let it flow...

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170828

After a long day, tired, unclean, unkempt, there is The Chippy. Everyone on your street goes to The Chippy. It's how they know each other, how news spreads beyond close neighbours. Chips. English chips. £1.30 for a big bundle of chips wrapped in brown paper, much too much for one person. That's one of the nice things about it. Potatoes are cheap and we can all happily share them. No big cost, no big problem. Smiles all round. Fish is expensive. But who really wants fish anyway? Walking back from work late at night with a big bundle of chips under your arm, bit too hot to hold. Smell of brown paper and vinegar.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170827

There is only one real place in the world. Sorry. I wasn't clear. Real is subjective. What I mean is that only one location runs in real-time. That place is the McDonalds restaurant at the intersection between Manchester's Oxford Road and Portland Street. The simulation only tenders this space. It's the focal point of the show. Time spent elsewhere is auxiliary computation, auto-generated​ plotline, all inferred. Ambient music, food and short social dramas. That's the plot. That's who you are, all you are. We're sorry your world is imperfect. Imperfection permits drama. Drama is our product. Know that your suffering generates our income, and be glad your existence has purpose.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170826

Three-sixty-five days White windowless room, strip lights I write stories here

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170825

Blue was probably his favourite shade, a bold cerulean. He felt the colour had a techy utilitarian feel to it. it made his fingertips feel like distinct points, coordinates. Performing dexterous tasks felt much better with cerulean nails.

Nails mattered, he thought. Not a lot, but they matteted. It was a harmless but distinct fuck you to a number of anachronistic notions and it looked nice.

He’d tried all sorts of nails. Shades and patterns, glow and glitter.

Dendric nails were new to him. One of his favourite nail boards had covered them. A combination of plant extracts cause a photochemical reaction that, unusually, only causes fluorescence in low light environments. Something about the excited energy state of the electrons in the resulting fluorescent compound being unusually easy to maintain, so even dim lighting was sufficient to make decay improbable. But below certain light thresholds the dye would assume not just a glow, but a visible and vibrant trail in the air. The OP didn’t provide an explanation for that part. But whatever. Point is, you blend some things from Halloand and Barrett in water, leave it to dry, mix the resulting powder into nail polish or choice of nailpaint and it’ll leave coloured trails. It sounded ridiculous. The OP said she got the idea from a review paper in a legit chemistry journal, something about folk medicines with actual scientific bases, but the link she provided didn’t work. Mind, a few people had posted their own pictures of the phenomenon and they looked legit enough, so…

It worked, to his surprise. He was sceptical of the concept at first but it did indeed work. Cerulean trails behind his fingertips. Weaving patterns through the air in his dimly lit room. He took some pictures on his phone to submit to the blog. He sat at his terminal. Typing looked especially pretty.

The blog was down. Frustrating. He posted some pictures to his own wall instead.

~

Someone was saying his name, gently. He lived alone. This was not good.

He woke with a start. Through blurred eyes he saw just one person in the room besides himself, right in front of the open door. In a robe. A friggin’ robe with a big fucking hood. Someone had broken into his house and into his bedroom and was whispering his name at him while wearing a fucking robe. The fuck?

“The fuck?! Get out, get the fuck out!”

He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t think about it, before thoughts could form he’d dived out of bed, stark naked, and went for the intruder who gently waved her hand through the air in a small circular motion, leaving a trail of cerulean blue…

He stopped himself. He stood upright, arms straight by his side. He couldn’t move.

She gently walked her fingers through the air, blue dashes traced from her nails as she did so. He walked closer to her. He didn’t want to, he couldn’t resist, he just did. His fear had gone. He felt null. Nothing at all.

She raised her other hand. In a snap it contorted it into a wholly unnatural pose, joints cracking, blood dripping from torn skin, a shock of cerulean streaking from her fingers as they twitched out of place, dimming to crimson.

His body followed suit. It twiched perhaps twice, three times, then he was still.

She flicked her hand back into shape and strolled to the bedside table, his phone. She gently laid her pinky finger on it. The screen glowed dimly in the dark, then was black.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

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[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170823

She -did- have a lot of old clothes lying around, mostly Albert’s old things, sweaters and whatnot, and she supposed she didn’t have much need of them now, she supposed it was a bit silly and sentimental to be keeping them when they could go to good use, so she gathered it all up and put it in the charity bag.

Strange charity bag, this one, and not from any charity she knew of. Txfkiilu, it looked like, or perhaps Fvhxijka, but those aren’t words, surely. Perhaps an acronym? Or maybe it’s foreign for something. Or maybe she needed her glasses changing. Yes, maybe it was that. The bags looked a bit blurry, almost as if they were glowing. Glowing black. The pictures on the bag, she wasn’t sure what they were meant to be, but they seemed to be moving too. And that clearly wasn’t so. Surely it was her prescription.

She left the charity bag by the door to put out in the morning.

She woke up at about 3. Nothing specific woke her, as far as she could tell. She just felt a sort of… foreboding. Almost dread. She’d felt it before, and she knew she had nothing to fear and that everything was fine and it was silly to get upset over nothing, but… But she did miss Albert. She wasn’t silly. She knew she was lonely, grieving. It must be about a year now, she thought. She wasn’t fooling herself. She knew it was a year. Precisely a year.

Oh, Albert…

At that moment there came a mighty tearing from downstairs, as of fabric ripping but amplified a hundred fold. She felt it judder through her. She felt her despair turn to… To excitement? She didn’t know precisley what was happening but she presumed someone had broken into the house and so she was quite surprised to find that her instinctive response was joyous anticipation. She got herself out of bed, made sure her nightie was proper. She crossed the landing. She wasn’t afraid. She clicked the light switch and…

There, at the bottom of the stairs, was Alfred, dressed in his neat woolen Sunday suit and a [hat type]. She’d put that precise suit in the charity bag. He rather looked like he’d just come back from a long trip.

He had, in a sense.

“M-Mabel?” “Alfred?!” “M-Mabel, it’s me! It’s Alfred!” “I know it’s you Alfred, I think I should know what my own husband looks like!” she said, feigning impatience, finding it hard to suppress her smile, her tears. “Mabel, y-you wouldn’t believe where I’ve bin!” “Where you’ve bin?! Oh, you silly sod, you! I may well just believe where you’ve bin! I was the one who had you buried, after all, and now here you are standing in the porch as if, as if…” She couldn’t keep this up. Her grin erupted. “Come here, you silly old sod.”

After their initial hug they sat on the bottom stair, holding one another, not speaking, just being. Just feeling so, so grateful for one another.

“So…” She had to ask. “Was it nice, where you’ve been?” “Oh yes, very nice Mabel. Very nice. The service was excellent.” He looked her dead in the eye. “I did miss you though, you know. I did worry about you.” “Daft sod,” she smiled.

“I missed you too.”

“Mind you, it’s been all go here. Gemma’s had another boy!” “Another one! Oh, that’s wonderful!” “Oh yes! As they’ve already got an Albert they called him Jeremy, after your dad. I’ve really not had much time to myself, what with all the babysitting. I’ll call Gemma tomorrow and ask if they’d like to come round for tea. Little Albert’s always asking after you, he’ll be thrilled to see you.” “Won’t they be a little shocked though?” “Albert won’t be. Albert will be pleased as punch. Andrew’s missed you too, and obviously Gemma and Terry have too. I’ll have to buy some things in, I’ve not had much time for baking recently you see…”

They didn’t sleep that night, instead spending it planning a lovely tea, some nice days in the park with the grandchildren, and where they might go on holiday. It was still summer, after all.

[writesomethingeverynothing]

20170822

I shuffled back against him. He turned to cuddle me, big spoon. Even with the curtains closed, in the still darkness of the room I could just see the flashes of lightning through my eyelids. The thunder took some time to follow. The patter of rain soothed my mind.

This flash… this flash wasn’t a flash. It was a stream of light, it was getting brighter. I could see it through my eyelids. I opened my eyes; I could see it through the curtains. I raised my hand, I could see it through my hand, not through the gaps of my fingers but through the flesh of my fingers. The wall blew inwards-