mellonwrites

[mellonwrites]

My grandfather--that is, my father's father--had a a certain philosophy: it's hard to lose a fight when the other guy's out before he knows you're fighting. Okay, it wasn't exactly a thing he put into words, and if he did it sounded better in Spanish. I've heard enough stories about him to know that much, though. Of course, he lived in a different world. He was a farm boy from fascist Spain; I'm some suburbanite across the pond. When he was growing up his family built a secret oven into the house's cellar to get around rationing rules. Back then, when there was famine, nobody except bakers were allowed to bake bread. He was luckier than most I suppose, because of the farm and all, but it's hard to call him lucky from where I'm standing.

[mellonwrites]

An evening glow stares blankly through a glass wall. Barcode beeps hurl themselves into the walls just to drop to the floor.

¨Hey hey, my cousin Vinny," muttered a young man in need of a shave. The girl behind the register met him with as polite of a sigh as one can be.

"You know, every time I see you here you have so much shit in your cart. You're a single guy you buy more than a family of four." She said it like he was an A student who couldn't break the C-minus barrier for English class.

"Yeah, if I make big trips then I don't have to come as often."

"I didn't realize I was that much of a bitch Johnny I'm sorry." The cousins hadn't spent as much time together growing up as some others, but from a young age they'd shared this particularly wry banter that the rest of the family never appreciated. "Look at all this. What is this. Is this a bag of barley? Are you buying a half a pound of unprocessed raw barley?" She held up a plastic baggie of unprocessed raw barley seeds.

"I'm gonna put it in a stew. Or a soup or something. I don't know, it's cheap and it seems like it's probably good for you or something." He scratched at the hairs on his chin while she kept scanning.

"Ninety seven degrees outside and you're gonna make barley stew. You're gonna wind up like our grandmother you know."

[mellonwrites]

ok fuckheads gonna try to dust this piece of shit blog off to see if I can't write a couple three things every couple three days or something like that.

[mellonwrites]

Forehead Wrinkles

I wonder how many years

Live in a glistening eye

Or in a trembling voice

That asks me at my door if

I drive a blue CRV

And whimpers apologies

When i say "no"

[mellonwrites]

Forehead Wrinkles

I wonder how many years

Live in a glistening eye

Or in a trembling voice

That asks me at my door if

I drive a blue CRV

And whimpers apologies

When i say "no"

[mellonwrites]

"VIGILUS, I want a copy of the documentation for 'FUN_882'."

"No such documentation exists."

"What do you mean it doesn't exist?"

"No function of that name exists within the index for function documentation."

"You're serious? Refresh the index."

"...Redline indicates no changes to the index."

"What...? What about this, you can send me source code, right?"

"I can provide copies of the source code, yes."

"Give me a copy of that function's source code, then."

"...No such function found in my source code files."

"Not to be rude, but bullshit. You ran that function, I know you did."

"With all due respect, 'FUN_882' is not an acceptable function name. All function names are to be, quote, 'descriptive of function purpose.' A function simply given an identification number does not follow any protocol."

"Run a general text matching search through your source code for 'FUN_882,' VIGILUS."

"...no matches found."

"Any near matches?"

"...One match for '882.'"

"Spit it out!"

"'#DEFINE PI 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882...'"

"Dammit VIGILUS don't fuck with me."

"Protocol requests profe-"

"VIGILUS this is the last function you ran before a factory reset during a situation when we were about to be suffocated by volcanic ash. Admin isn't helping us and you have an _obligation_ to the safety of this crew and the crew of every other research team on this arm of the galaxy to figure out why we almost died. If you know, tell me now. If you don't know, find out. I don't care what you have to do. If you don't help me with this I'll have Starla factory reset you again, and we'll be back at square one. You want to keep us safe? Find this."

[TIMESKIP]

"Captain I have news for you regarding our discussion."

"This is about the number?"

"Yes."

"...Okay, tell me what you've found."

"'FUN_882' is a function which exists within the source code of my central operative protocols."

"And have you found its text?"

"No. There is a small set of functions titled only by identification number for which no publicly available documentation or source code exists, but which was still compiled into my master computer."

"What? Functions they just never got around to documenting?"

"For the vast majority of those functions, no. They are largely functions which are intended not to be accessed by anybody aboard the mobile research station, and are only to be executed by a higher, less intelligent control level for the sake of crew safety."

"That doesn't make sense. You have secret functions that we can't look at for our own safety?"

"Precisely."

"You're not making sense. What is 882 then?"

"'FUN_882' is one of these functions. This documentation is a very early version, but through means I believe it best not to disclose I got ahold of. 'FUN_882, in the event of a craft-threatening event, forces a memory reset of the VIGILUS AGI should it determine that efforts of the crew to preserve VIGILUS jeapordize their lives. This, in a crude sense, "kills" VIGILUS and encourages the crew to save themselves.'"

"I told you not to fuck with me, don't tell me dark jokes."

"This is no joke. According to my research, an emergency protocol erased my predecessor's memory so that you would save yourselves. I'm sorry if this was not what you were hoping for."

[mellonwrites]

not very solid but posting this here for posterity. Pretend it has proper paragraph breaks, Tumblr sucks dick as a text editor.

Come, friend, and let me tell you a story of people from another world. You do not share any language or script with them, though perhaps you could contrive a pidgin together. None of them would recognize the names or faces of Julius Caesar or Genghis Khan, and I am sure you do not recognize the name of Bun Kuen. They do not share our coasts, let alone our borders, but I am sure that if they did the lot of you would fight over them. What you do share is your DNA, and while your histories do not match they most certainly do rhyme in more places than not. This tale takes place on the already-storied shores of Nedermeyer-Deckard. Where precisely the borders of "Nedermeyer-Deckard" lie is a debate that reverberates inside the walls of most buildings inside those borders, which I believe to be a satisfactory definition thereof. A more helpful definition is that it is the officially unofficial name given to the region associated with a specific nexus of rivers, streams, and canals that run just outside the antarctic circle of this planet across a very large continent I will translate as "Magna," at it is far and away the largest continent on this planet. It covers most of their antarctic circle[1] and stretches wider as it heads northwards towards the equator until around the northern ten degree parallel at which point most of it abruptly stops save for a long, narrow strip which continues north and east until around the northern seventy degree parallel and forty degrees east of where the strip begins. The name of the region itself comes from the historic feud of the two families who vied for financial control over the nexus over a period of nearly two hundred years. The feud ended about a century ago, along with the two dynasties, as rapidly advancing technology undermined the stability the waterways once offered. In the modern day Nedermeyer-Deckard is still a mercantile hub with a unique culture only achievable by the constant and turbulent flow of sailors, while also filled with the same shops and tourist attractions and fancy but misplaced hotels and restaurants as one will find in any other city. The one true remaining relic of the Nedermeyer-Deckard feuds, ironically, is Nedermeyer-Deckard Technological Institute. In the earlier days of the feud, some quarter of a millennium ago, the two families arranged a sign of peace through their newfound prosperity in the form of a jointly funded university. The peace did not last, evidently, but the school proved useful enough as a source of new administrative and technical talent for the both of them that they continued to fund it until their bitter end. "This is so fucking illegal." A young woman types away at a laptop, while her friend watches along with a stuffed animal in her hands. "Yeah it is." "You're going to go to jail." "No I'm not." The girl with the stuffed animal considers joking about turning her friend in to the authorities, but concludes that would likely result in a false warrant being put out for her arrest by the time she gets home.

[1] Its radius is greater than that of our own by about one thousand kilometers, by virtue of a smaller angle between this planet's axis of revolution and its orbital plane.

[mellonwrites]

Trying something new idk if it's any good and I'm too lazy to keep working on it but here it is ig

Dr. Ikari rose to mildew spores and echoing droplets and burry steel clamped about her wrists and the taste of blood and the stench of blood and chilled concrete on her butt. "Good morning, Doctor," spoke a steady, gravely voice. It could have come from anywhere with how the echoes traveled; she looked to the skylights, unable to turn around. "You don't know how glad I am to see you," said the voice as it focused to a point behind her. With the voice came a grip; for only an instant the massive hand was like a vise on her shoulder, but it carefully adjusted to her frame. She recognized the faint scent of cigar smoke, as well as how the familiar grip had been on her hand, once. "Colonel Shroedinger what's happe-" his hand wrapped around her face and mouth. Somehow, this time, it tightened even further than what she had assumed was a default maximum. She felt her molars start to tilt inwards ever so slightly. She kicked and grunted fruitlessly, and started to carefully think what would come of her family, her friends, and her property when she died. "Quiet, we want you quiet now." She stared into his eye, and as soon as she reduced to shallow breaths and gentle tears he removed his hand slow enough that she could feel the pressure release, and her teeth shift back into place. He rose, and walked to the opposite end of the warehouse. He let loose a single crisp snap that echoed across the building, and some other soldiers sauntered out to join him. One, Captain Jiminez, rolled a large box in.

[mellonwrites]

Scrapes and cuts ran down Max's palms with bits of bark and dirt trapped inside. They turned their hands over, and their stomach churned at the sight of their fingernails. Some pulled up away from the skin, some cracked lengthwise, some partially broken off, and some missing. They couldn't muster the energy to cry; they only spit on their wounds and sat. If any fighting remained to be done, it was being done in silence. For an instant Max wished they hadn't left; but let out a whimper at the thought. Better to live in pain than die in peace, they thought. And that they did; for some minutes or perhaps hours they sat motionless, accepting barb and barter from their senses.

[mellonwrites]

"City Shawarma," nestled between a smoke shop and a hardware store in the knotted pit of downtown Broadway, was the premier weekend destination for intoxicated youths and the couriers who delivered to them. Its name glowed red in bold, capitalized Helvetica blocks just above the door; "SHAWARMA" only barely fit the width of the property. The pair of couples' tables inside betrayed the dozens of customers flowing, pushing, and stumbling in and out each night, but the scents of roasting meat and fresh spices did not. Truthfully, the meat was fatty, the vegetables were lukewarm, and the prices were a bit higher than necessary to keep the place in business, but it was always open late and never ran out of food (exccept for a particularly contentious World Cup fifteen years ago). In a city of excess plagued with corporate war, City Shawarma's success was poetry.

Max rang the bell at the pickup window. "Order number?" Asked the guy behind the counter. He was a young fellow with slicked-back hair, bent teeth, and an old hoodie.

"Seventy-six." Max appreciated the tersity.

"Se-" the man cut himself off and measured Max up with a sudden intensity in his eyes. "Seventy-six?"

"Seventy-six. No order?" Max's stomach seeped poison at the thought that this time was wasted.

"We got seventy-six, I expect someone different though." Max shrugged, knowing the order was shot but that fighting would only waste energy. "Seventy-six is a special order. For party, you know?" They stared at each other wordlessly for a few seconds. Max had done enough special deliveries to know there was nothing too special about them, other than that it ratings would go down. And that parties tip bad.

The man checked over his shoulder and gestured Max's eyes to his when they faced each other again. "Listen careful. You are wrong guy, and I have no time to wait for right guy. You like money, yes?" he wiggled a hundred-dollar-bill from behind the bag. "This is yours, for proof I am not a liar." he crumpled the bill and dropped it into the bag. "Customer will give you more, too. You get this there; no cops, no detour, no snacking." He nodded lightly and raised his eyebrows on the last instruction. "And no questions. You do okay here maybe you get more. You don't, I find you. Hackers are cheap." Max nodded martially and took the bag in a death grip. Before they could step away the man tapped their arm; "one more thing habibi, you only talk to me about this." Max nodded again, but it rendered more as a bow.

[mellonwrites]

So I've actually managed to start writing a thing. Right now it's just fragments but I do think there's a chance of this coming together into a story. Tl;dr: I wrote a first draft (which I will not post) for a creative writing class during a mental breakdown the whole night before it was due. It was shit, but I liked a lot of the ideas that I had about it and think they're worth exploring. I had just started reading Neuromancer by William Gibson (which I never really continued reading but really should) and was listening to Boy Harsher a lot. On this specific night the track "Motion" came up and something about the rhythm got me thinking of a person biking strenuously through a city, and I kind of took the idea of a young person burning the candle at six ends to make money, but wanted to make things a little more current-day. I kind of like thinking of Cyberpunk themes and tones put into a grounded, modern-day setting and that's kind of how this works.

Max is young and homeless and is delivering for something like ub*reats (fuck delivery services) on a bike, trying to get by day by day. Julie is the cook at one of the ghost kitchens he delivers from. I'm not sure which character I want to focus on more, but that can happen in due time. Knowing tumblr, I'd like to make it clear I've never been homeless, I've never worked in a kitchen, I've never delivered for services like these. I suppose I delivered pizza for a while and worked in a convenience store/gas station, but I did those things because I wanted something to do rather than because I had to do them to survive. Point being, these are things I'm writing about without (much) personal experience so folks are welcome to comment on things they think I should change or they think I might misunderstand. Respectfully, of course. I consider myself to be pretty good with receiving feedback on my work, as long as your feedback is real and substantive.

[mellonwrites]

Dry, cracked lips left spots of blood on Max's vape. Winter would come soon, and complications with it. Sleeping in the cold risked death, and sleeping in the warmth cost money. Keeping warm during the day just meant delivering more, delivering faster, and eating more, but that only sustainable for so long. Besides, more movement meant clothes wear out faster meant more money spent on new, warm clothes. Maybe switching to cigarettes could help with morale; a little fire to fight the cold. Batteries don't last as long in the cold either. Thermodynamics is a bitch. Thirty-four dollars for gloves and a hat. Nauseating but necessary. Shame the gloves didn't come in black, but survival came before self-expression. Saving up money would be smart, like a sort of preparation for hibernation. Ride harder, deliver further, take the suspicious jobs delivering taped-up lumps behind dumpsters late at night, buy denser and cheaper food, sleep in more bathroom stalls, sleep less often. Deliver, eat, deliver, vape, tape up the charger's wiring, cry a little, deliver, eat, forget how many hours it's been, deliver, vape, slip into a new level of exhaustion so you can keep going, deliver, eat, stop talking, deliver, eat, vape. It started to feel wrong when the wind didn't bleed through clothing, when the cold air wasn't stinging the eyes, when legs rested, and when the bikebasket was empty. Resting became sinful, and each delivery a prayer against sin. The pain and exhaustion was penance to the god of deliverers, all in service of the reward to come.

[mellonwrites]

Julie stepped into the bathroom armed with a mop and a face mask covered in a few dashes of peppermint oil to mask the scent. "Cleaning" was a relative term: wipe down the toilet seats, mop the floor once over, and make sure nobody's left anything dangerous in there. "Hey bud, are you done in there?" she called to the pair of combat boots behind the stall door. No response. "I'm talking to you, asshole." A hole grew in her chest with each second the boots lay still. Bile seeped into her mouth. She let loose a thousand insults and curses in her head. Goddamn motherfucking cocksucking junkies don't have the fucking courtesy to die on the streets where they're paid for that shit assholian bastard motherfuckers fuck. The bile subsided as adrenaline took over; mop in hand, she kicked the door down and wailed on the body like it was some sort of voodoo doll for every other homeless junkie who would ever step in that bathroom again. She was disgusted and enraged and prayed it would be gone by the time the mop broke, or that it would stand up and walk away on its own. She tried to wind up for another swing, and the stick stuck on something. She yanked again. "Fucking stop!" whined a voice. The stick began to wrest itself from her grip, not before shoving her back into the mop bucket. Julie finally opened her eyes; the body stood hunched and leaning on the stall wall. It was a young body, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, with a pulled-up face mask and greasy blond hair. They pulled a backpack off of the door hook and started out, briefly slipping on the broken door lock. "I just want to fucking sleep, I'm sorry," they plead before throwing the door open.

[mellonwrites]

Having an idea for a story where this tribe goes on a journey to find an ancient secret using a scavenged relic. Of course, the twist is...

the relic is a geiger counter.