Legolover-361

Just popping in to say that this blog entry is really well-written and that whether or not I can write worthwhile comments, I'll be sure to read what you post. To respond more directly to your entry: I've never had a friend like the one you described, so I can't contribute anything to a serious discussion.

This is one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. You can definitely expect some entries from me.

I have found a few volunteer judges who have offered to review the stories and send me their results. Two of them have already sent me their ranked lists. Two isn't enough, though, so I'll try to get more reviews posthaste.My apologies for the delay, everyone! Hopefully we'll find out who won this contest by the end of the month.

If you're using Windows 8, I recommend downloading Classic Shell. You can use it to re-add the Start Menu button in Desktop mode among some other things, which, for me at least, is helpful.

DOOMIE!I really like the artwork. It's a little cartoonish, but that fits Doomie perfectly. The gun looks great. My only critique is that Doomie's left hand, the one holding the rope, looks a little odd; I think the thumb's position is a little awkward.Overall, I really like it.

So much yes.

Do accept my birthday felicitations, Fives. Have a good one!

You weren't seventeen already? Dang, I feel old now.Happy birthday!

If you've actually found points about why calling the Matoran "Tohunga" was bad apart from the fact that copyrighting foreign words probably shouldn't be legal, I'd be interested in reading them. From the summary you linked, though, it seems to me like calling the Matoran "Tohunga" was if anything a nod to the Maori people -- after all, the Matoran were oppressed by a big entity across the pond just as, according to my interpretation of the article, the Tohunga were. Am I missing something?

IC: 03608Personnel DeckHad she been dreaming? Maybe. She couldn't remember.The darkness behind her eyelids was like a blanket, wrapping her snugly, giving her body warmth.There was something missing, something buzzing in the back of her mind like an insect, but she couldn't think of it. Was it important? Perchance it was, but perchance it wasn't. She sought again to remember her dream but could not recollect any. Odd.She expelled air from her lungs in a sigh. What air that replaced the departed breath was not oxygen.Now her eyes snapped open. Mist enveloped her sight. Claustrophobia, fear of the cage, thrashed her limbs; her extremities struck against a crystalline surface, and she cried out and struck the barrier again.GetmeoutgetmeOUT!A crack, a breeze, and the mist was siphoned from her vicinity. She gasped, slumping against one side of the cylindrical glass wall, as the gas thinned to the point where she could view her surroundings.Apart from the crack she must have caused, other fractures spread like a spiderweb across the glass barrier. Beyond it, though outside light was splintered by the fractures, she could see rows of canisters and a metallic floor. She could see no one else.Her heart flared. Claustrophobia returned in a surge; she stepped forward and pounded on the glass barrier with her fists, screaming for help till her throat grew raw.The screaming did nothing, but the pounding did: Under the pressure of repeated blows, it cracked, falling and shattering on the ground. She fell after them before she could catch herself.Open space. She was free. Her heart ceased its palpitations but still trembled with the rest of her body.She rose to her hands and knees, staring not at the ground but through it, to where the answers to her myriad mental questions lay, if only she could untangle them.Her visor suddenly brightened. Text appeared:Initiating startup sequence for ID03608...What? She rolled over and pawed her visor but couldn't brush the words away.Running diagnostics...Diagnostics complete.Launching HUD.The text disappeared -- only to be replaced by more displays that ringed her visor that read things like heart rate, atmospheric constitution, and radiation levels. With their appearance came understanding. She knew these displays like they were long-lost friends. Finally, in an alien environment, she had familiarity.But she was still alone.Alone? -- what's that?No one else like her.There are others?Here she paused. What reasons did she have for suspecting there were others? For all she knew, she was completely alone--No, stupid, the canisters! Right. The canisters. She looked up at them now. They were all the same size as hers; some even had sides broken open like hers had been when she escaped. Disturbances in the debris, mainly glass, suggested footsteps. Whoever had been here, though, was gone, so she turned to examining her suit again.There was a number on her wrist, 03608, and what looked like a retractable syringe attachment, but no other identifying features.The next question to emerge from her mental fog was thus, Who am I?She remained seated for perhaps a minute pondering that question, tracing patterns on the floor with her right index finger.

Smooth.

ID Tag: 03608Gender & Species: Female, Toa of IceAppearance: Short for a Toa: about six feet, seven inches when standing ramrod-straight in her power suit. Gold eyes behind silver Matatu. Power suit is white with a faint gray tint and is average bulkiness.Power Suit: Scientific knowledge, especially the periodic table, chemical compounds, physics, and measurements. Sports a HUD for quick analysis of objects, multiple vision modes (visible light, infrared, ultraviolet, x-ray, etc.) numerous sensory inputs finely tuned to detect heat, light, etc., a syringe, a CPU and containers of chemicals in a built-in backpack, a flashlight, radiation shielding (meant for close-up experiments on radioactive materials), and two cameras (one forward and one rear) that can record video or take pictures.Abilities: Kanohi MatatuPersonality: Confused. Jumbled. 03608's mind is damaged. She suffers from visual and auditory hallucinations and sometimes she switches personalities as effortlessly as if she were shifting conversation topics. She's also a little bipolar: Sometimes she's timorous and thoughtful, shying away from proximity to others, and sometimes she's prone to paroxysms of emotion. Sometimes she'll talk to herself. It's unnerving, most of all to her, but she knows she has to survive somehow, so she does the best she can.

If a power suit can't have a HUD, I can edit my profile to reflect that.ID Tag: 03608Gender & Species: Female, Toa of IceAppearance: Short for a Toa: about six feet, seven inches when standing ramrod-straight in her power suit. Gold eyes behind silver Matatu. Power suit is white with a faint gray tint and is average bulkiness.Power Suit: Scientific knowledge, especially the periodic table, chemical compounds, physics, and measurements. Sports a HUD for quick analysis of objects, multiple vision modes (visible light, infrared, ultraviolet, x-ray, etc.) numerous sensory inputs finely tuned to detect heat, light, etc., a syringe, a CPU and containers of chemicals in a built-in backpack, a flashlight, radiation shielding (meant for close-up experiments on radioactive materials), and two cameras (one forward and one rear) that can record video or take pictures.Abilities: Kanohi MatatuPersonality: Confused. Jumbled. 03608's mind is damaged. She suffers from visual and auditory hallucinations and sometimes she switches personalities as effortlessly as if she were shifting conversation topics. She's also a little bipolar: Sometimes she's timorous and thoughtful, shying away from proximity to others, and sometimes she's prone to paroxysms of emotion. Sometimes she'll talk to herself. It's unnerving, most of all to her, but she knows she has to survive somehow, so she does the best she can.

I'm not very pleased with this entry, but I'm submitting it anyway. At least I tried.Though I wasn't able to participate to a significant extent in the Flash Fiction Marathon 2 due to an absence, I've done what I can, and I hope everyone else has gotten as much enjoyment out of this as I have.* * *Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: Art to StoryWord Count: 750Story: TriggerI think that within this universe, in the journey of every sentient species, there is a threshold.On the near side of the threshold is prematurity: space-faring civilizations whose hops and skips onto stellar stepping stones are fueled primarily by hubris, temerity, and more than a few careless decisions; societies still consumed by civil war and turmoil, who have not found a common enemy to unite them and so turn on themselves like fever on the human body — i.e. adolescence. The mountain lies before them, but they only have the faintest idea it exists and know not what it means. Humanity belongs to this group.The far side of the threshold is maturity. I don’t know what lies beyond the threshold, for I’m only human. I don’t know what a species in adulthood would be. Maybe species beyond the threshold are as burdened with war, dissonance, poverty, and mortality as the rest of us primitives are.The threshold itself, however, must not be discarded. It (theoretically speaking) must be a trigger, what event or discovery that awakens a race to its potential and, like spurs in the sides of a horse, accelerates its pace.Why am I relating this? First, I’ve been on a science fiction binge for my past month on Europa: Speculation has become a part of my daily routine.Second, I believe I’ve discovered the trigger.* * *If I had to describe Europa in one word, I would choose “interesting”.Its tenuous atmosphere contains oxygen, the product of water molecules on Europa’s surface being broken into their base components and hydrogen atoms’ nominal mass. The temperature about the area of Outpost EU1-E, to the best of my knowledge, has never risen past negative two hundred eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Naturally, being on average over three hundred degrees Fahrenheit colder than the freezing temperature of water, Europa’s surface is frozen solid; but it is covered with canyons and rifts that we still need to explore.Jupiter, however, is massive. Its gravitational force kneads Europa’s core like dough. The warping generates heat. Subsequently, the heat melts some of the ice. Thus, water — two and a half miles below the surface.It was into that water that we tapped perchance a month ago. (Most of us celebrated not with water but with alcohol.) We still haven’t named the ocean, but we are fully expecting those of us more inclined to mythology to brainstorm a name posthaste.No human could (or would) squeeze through the hole that we bored in Europa’s surface; thus, we deposited a robot, ignored cries about pollutants, and began exploring.I was on duty when the discovery occurred. Actually, I was nearly asleep at the control board. The putta-putta-putta of our robot’s propellers served as a sleeping machine in a pinch, and three hours of looking at flashing lights like the ones on a Christmas tree does not adrenaline trigger.Because I was drowsy, I almost didn’t notice the screen. We’d discovered a form of cropped seaweed, probably modified algae, on the Europan ocean floor; it was by now a familiar sight, so it nearly concealed with its familiarity my discovery.Between the verdant filaments of seaweed lay a colored object — three to be technical, but they were pieces of a whole. I slapped myself so I knew I wasn’t dreaming, but there it was: broken pottery on Europa’s ocean floor.I reported it. The higher-ups came back to me (a full day later) and said to do tests. We did them. The pottery wasn’t from us.We recovered it. It was worn so the designs weren’t legible, and much of the pottery had been worn smooth so it wouldn’t perfectly fit together again, but it was enough. A report was prepared. I was told to sit in the background of the video, and I waved when my direct superior, Dr. Ian Miller, pointed to me and said I had made the discovery, but otherwise I said nothing. Maybe I should have — who knows?What I do know — what we all know — is that the pottery belongs to someone else. It’s a mystery, but its existence has answered another question that has burned in our hearts for millennia:Are we alone? The answer is no; we are not.Now I’m waiting for someone to answer, “So what now?”Perhaps the answer to that question will be the trigger, and my discovery will be the trigger of the trigger, if you get what I mean. It’s just speculation, mind you.

Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: ParadiseWord Count: 448Story: Medicine Man“Fine — look — I’ll give you a roll from my dinner. I saved it.”Kenari’s lupine grin, visible as a gleam even in the darkness below the ship Rogue’s deck, was a clear rejection to the offer.The hunchbacked prisoner who had given the offer, a Toa whose face and body were covered in grime, tensed his shoulders in frustration and ground his teeth together. One twisted hand became a fist. A pause — “S’all I have to give,” he grunted, his fist uncurling but his fingers still tense.Kenari didn’t move from where he sat against the wall, not even as the ship shifted and water sloshed outside. “You’re in no position to bargain,” said the Toa of Lightning.The prisoner growled. “Karzahni’d have fun with you.”Kenari lifted his eyebrows, calling the prisoner’s bluff. “I’m sure he would.”Another growl; this time, however, a roll was pressed into Kenari’s hand. He held it to his face and sniffed. Satisfied it wasn’t old, he pocketed it and gestured for the Toa to sit beside him, then placed his hand on the back of the Toa’s neck and closed his eyes.“What do you want this time?”“An island.”“That’s awfully little for me to go on.”“Fine. Make it a small one — in the middle of the ocean — like, coconut trees or something. Gukkos. Daytime.”The prisoner’s brain, just like any other being’s brain, operated using electricity. Kenari took that electricity and rerouted the signals so they would return to the brain, then took control with his Great Mahiki. The combination was such that the prisoner, after entering a stupor, only twitched his eyelids and the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t even here, really, if you thought about it.Oh, the lengths people go to find a paradise...Though simple when outlined, the delicate maneuvers Kenari had to perform to maintain the hallucination were tiring. It was like a dance: a tweak here, a twist there, and match the Toa’s brain waves. That fellow prisoner could’ve just gone to sleep and hoped to dream, but he wanted a sure thing. That was how Kenari, otherwise an unassuming character, survived in the brig of the Rogue.If only someone could place him under...After the set time of seven minutes, Kenari released his concentration, gasping, and regained his composure before the prisoner fully awoke. The other Toa stood, gruff once more but faintly abashed, and strode back to his claustrophobic cot without saying anything to, or even looking at, Kenari.The Toa of Lightning remained where he sat before as if nothing had happened, smiling a bit as if enjoying a private joke. Illusions didn’t have to be mental.

Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: Character StoryWord Count: 434Story: A Heart TornElizabeth always carried a pebble in her pocket. It was one of her quirks, she supposed. Her mom had beseeched her to throw it back into the woods or river, “where it belongs.”In Mom’s eyes, it was a weight on Elizabeth’s shoulders.In Elizabeth’s eyes, it was a good luck charm and perhaps the last vestige of her father’s life.Elizabeth had known her father had a bad heart by the tender age of seven. Situations weren’t much harder for her to solve than jigsaw puzzles: She had noticed the pills on Daddy’s bureau and the low-sodium foods he ate and casually asked Dad one night if his blood pressure would continue to rise if he didn’t take precautions.He had given her a what-did-your-mom-tell-you look and had said, “Yea- yes, Ellie. I’ll balloon up and explode if I don’t eat those foods!” He had puffed his cheeks for emphasis.“No, you won’t,” Elizabeth had said.He had paused abashedly before sobering. “And how would you know?”“I looked it up.”“Does your mom know?”“I guess — she could see me.”He had sighed. “Ellie, I’m fine, okay? As long as I follow a strict diet, I can live a life just like anyone else—”“I know that, Daddy.”Daddy had sighed again and turned on the TV.Traipsing along an impromptu path, little more than gaps in the underbrush widened by years of walks out here, Elizabeth took out the rock and admired its surface, worn smooth by years of rushing water. It gleamed faintly.The trees about her were tinted shades of sunset by autumn. The orange vista was calming to her whenever she found herself thinking of Dad.It was odd — on this very path, down near the river, Dad had died of a heart attack right after giving her the pebble she now held.She had been thirteen. She vaguely remembered screaming as he fell and running for the house, but it was blurry. Mostly, she remembered impressions: the humid air, the pounding of her footsteps, the feeling that the world was tipping under her as she had flung open the back door and called 911 before even telling her mother what was happening.But she had known Dad would be dead when she returned. She had told the 911 operator not that her Dad was dying but that he was dead. And he was.Even now, at seventeen, she felt alone.Her cell phone beeped. Mom had texted. Elizabeth looked up at the sky once more before turning back along the path, but she took her time.

Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: The ChroniclerWord Count: 421Story: The Close of the Civil WarAny good Chronicler knows that a story is no more than a sum of other stories.If a worthy Chronicler happened upon the Makuta-led massacre of civil war leaders in the Archives, that Chronicler ought not to think of only the heres and nows — the bodies strewn across the floor, the bloodstains on Teridax’s blade, the morbid satisfaction betrayed by his grin — but of the befores and afters.Such a Chronicler might say: There lies Odipheus the Po-Matoran, his right arm separated from the rest of his body, his eyes open in an empty gaze: Odipheus, who had pleaded in his prayers for the chance to face he who dared to incarcerate him, now free from bodily pain; who had asked that blood be shed and received his wish in more ways than one. And there lies Ta-Matoran Karhi, whose fiery temper ignited the hopes and fears of his kin, intimidating in death as he was in life: who drew his sword only to serve his friends and, in the end, gave up his life for them.That Chronicler might continue and note the Ga-Matoran Kokora, who courted Odipheus for a time before being repulsed by his rebellious streak and, for the duration of the Matoran Civil War, served only as healer and assistant. He may remark in brief about the passing of Ko-Matoran Irhu, perhaps the most pragmatic among those of the coldest Metru, who preached for cool heads and was rewarded being flung into battle with the opposite.But there was no Chronicler here.Teridax was cunning. As he had determined the war would end on his terms, so end it would — along with the talks of rebellion and the songs of heroes wrongly apotheosized and villains improperly labeled, of the very essence and hubris that had caused the conflict in the first place.Oh, Miserix would be furious if he discovered, and the Matoran would cry foul.But — and here lay the inherent pulchritude, the beautiful simplicity of his plot — Teridax would have cleaned the blood off his blade by then, and he would speak with squared shoulders and somber eyes of how he had been offered no other options. He would speak of a defender backed against a wall and forced to strike out against those he had sworn to protect. And no one would correct him.For he had made certain that he, and no virtuous individual, no Matoran or Toa — only he would write the chronicle of how the civil war came to its close.

Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: BonesWord Count: 750Story: The BreakingThe moment the infant mankind turned its eyes to the stars, it hungered to touch them. As mankind matured from nomads to farmers and merchants, and Eratosthenes determined that the Earth was not flat, humanity’s yearning fermented into something akin to lust. With no Earthly boundaries, dreams of exploration soon turned heavenward: to space, the final frontier.It was fitting: Throughout history, mankind attributed grandeur and divinity to space. Early astronomers traced patterns between stars that resembled warriors and great beasts; worshippers, in their prayers, found solace in gazing toward heaven; when John F. Kennedy’s dream of sending a man to the moon was realized, millions of hearts trembled.The next steps were surprisingly fast: by 2030, a lunar colony; by 2050, a Martian colony; by 2180, colonies on Jovian satellites.But these were only temporary mollifications for mankind’s desire to touch the stars. As is always the case, humanity wanted more.* * *The wispy blonde hair and anemic appearance of Doctor Markus Littman, Ph.D., inspired little confidence, but that fateful conference, May 12, 2208, he revealed they belied ferocity worthy of the greatest orators. His inflections rose and fell, his eyes flashed with electricity, and his gesticulations nearly tore his arms from their sockets. Only the elite said he was crazy. The remaining viewers, inundated with dreams of science fiction becoming reality, were more accepting of his claims that flesh and bones were outdated — that man could be downloaded into a CPU and sent to the stars.* * *“We’ve loaded you with painkillers; you won’t feel a thing.”Lawrence Hopkins, ninety-three years old, gazed at the ISS-08’s sterile white ceiling and refrained from wheezing into his oxygen mask. People back on Earth had said he looked young — he’d taken longevity pills once a week — but his hair was less salt-and-pepper, more white, and the cold metal bed upon which he lay prompted thoughts of mortality.The room’s exit was a few meters beyond Hopkins’s feet. In his next exhale, he expelled thoughts of quitting from his mind.Dr. Littman stood to the side, mouth hidden behind the curled index finger of his right hand. After he had outlined the procedure to Hopkins, he had been silent as his assistants made the appropriate connections. Hopkins had been sedated twice already as wires were strung from his brain to a large machine to his left and cables placed in his body to ensure it didn’t shut down before the procedure ended.The man who’d mentioned the painkillers, a lab-coated youth probably fresh out of college, turned from his comrade standing by the machine and gave Hopkins a smile obviously meant to be assuring. “Okay, you’re ready to go.” A pause. “Godspeed.”Hopkins nodded weakly. The two men departed at a look from Littman, whose eyes danced as he approached Hopkins’s bedside.“You’re a brave man,” he said. Hopkins wished he hadn’t.Littman left the room quickly.Now a tinny voice broadcasted through the intercom: “Begin checklist. Subject heart rate...”The list was long and included terms too technical for Hopkins to recall. He closed his eyes and waited until the call-and-response concluded.“...Checklist complete. Begin startup sequence.”Hopkins had expected something grand, like an engine’s ignition. The machine, however, only flashed a few lights and hummed quietly.“Begin transfer.”For a moment, Hopkins thought nothing would happen. Then he heard more than felt an electrical discharge within his head — the painkillers were working. His vision flickered and blurred, but that was expected during his loss of motor control.He suddenly realized he had given little thought to what being a computer would feel like, only that he might die before knowing.Now he was floating. But that couldn’t be — he was still bound to the surgical bed — he could see his eyes, closed in trepidation, and his body, still as death. Yet he was floating higher, feeling himself drawn from his body as if bonds were being stretched and torn—* * *“You feel normal?”The voice that responded from the machine’s speakers was not Hopkins’s for a simple reason: The machine was unable to sound like Hopkins. Nevertheless, it answered to Hopkins, and the transfer had proceeded as planned; thus, Littman reasoned, it must be Hopkins.“Yes,” it intonated. It paused. “Except...”“What?”“I don’t know — my memory’s off, I think.”“All will be explained,” said Littman, mentally noting that memory loss was an unpredicted symptom. It was, however, within the realm of probability. Mostly, it was unimportant. He would give it thought later.

Congratulations to the winners! I hope I'll have time to join at least one of the victorious RPGs.

Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: A Dark HuntWord Count: 750Story: FaultA scream.The Vortixx Eris awakened, a film of sweat on her face, and fumbled in the dark for the knife on her bedside cabinet before realizing she had been dreaming.Just as she had been dreaming for the past month.She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. She would sleep no more.* * *A few thoughtfully placed lightstones illuminated the Xian inn’s hallway and stairwell. Two flights of steps down, the corridor opened into a large lobby. Eris crossed the lobby between the front doors and receptionist’s desk and entered the inn’s modest bar and restaurant.Only a few people were awake at this hour: another Vortixx, slumped over the bar; two Matoran murmuring, their heads almost touching; and a Steltian with a scar over his left eye and a grimace on his face as though his drink was too bitter.After purchasing a frugal meal (she would eat no more of the inn’s second-rate breakfast than she had to), Eris deliberately took a seat two tables from the Steltian’s and ate silently. It was amazing that no one else could hear the boiling emotions incarcerated in her gut.One of the Matoran approached the Steltian with a few terse words. His response was equally brief, and the Matoran returned to his table, unbeknownst that he gave Eris the final proof she needed. This was the one.The Steltian finished his drink and exited the restaurant. Eris counted to three before following — risky, yes, but she was impatient. Her sheath felt heavy against her thigh.* * *The air outside the inn was cold, but it kept Eris awake.She kept her distance from the Steltian, stretching her arms and yawning a couple times as if she had just woken up. It was only an act (she tried to convince herself), but her subconscious nevertheless reminded Eris to sleep in tomorrow, or at least go to bed early tonight.When the Steltian finally looked at her, she was gazing at the sky, tinted violet by dawn. In her peripheral vision, the Steltian paused by the front display of a store as if window shopping. She didn’t stop walking till she was past him and he entered the store.No stores in Xia were open at this hour.There were two obvious possibilities: Either the Steltian was obtaining something in the store — legally or otherwise — or he was using it as a shortcut into a back alley.The third possibility, which Eris realized only after slipping into a neighboring alley, was that the store was his hideout. She prayed not.The Steltian wasn’t behind the shop. Eris approached the back door and placed her head against it, listening. Even her acute hearing could barely recognize words.“...not enough. I spent more than time getting this...”More mumbling. Something about being cheap. Then a tinkle of coins.Apparently the storeowner was a customer.When the Steltian exited, Eris had resumed her position and ploy of a tired Vortixx on an early morning stroll. She could tell he was suspicious by the glance he gave her, but he said nothing as he passed.She waited till his back was to her before leaping onto it and pressing a drug-soaked rag upon his face.He struggled mutely and then went limp. Eris dragged him into the alley and out of sight and fell to a sitting position beside his body, her heart galloping.This was it.* * *Eris’s knife was out of its sheath and resting against the Steltian’s neck when he awakened. His eyes were wary, but he otherwise displayed no surprise or recognition.“You know me,” Eris prompted.He was silent for a brief time before comprehending. “Yes,” he said, his tone markedly formal. “Yes, Eris, I do.”“You know Thora?”He was silent longer this time. “I think I’ve heard the name.”“You should. You killed her.”“I don’t kill people.”Eris’s knife hand was shaking. “You killed her,” she repeated.“I did not, Eris. That was you.”“You made me!”“You had every ability to deny the job—”“That’s false, and you know it!”“Regardless, I’m not a murderer.”“If you’d told me I’d been hired to kill her—”“You never asked,” said the Steltian.The final straw.The scream replayed in Eris’s mind. She nearly repeated it aloud. On an impulse, she pressed the knife against the Steltian’s neck—And froze.Recoiled, gut churning.Pulled it away and, cursing, ran back into the street with burning eyes.