One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
Writers are hired to write the background for an ambitious game. Unfortunately, the project is canceled.
Twenty years later, they are kidnapped and brought into the live version of the world they imagined.
Faced with all kinds of dangers, they desperately try to remember what they wrote back then.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
The child who fell sick
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
When the management of the greedy company decided not to compensate the backwater inhabitants of a forest despoiled by factories, a child fell sick because of the industrial waste, but survived.
For many years, the boy grew in the secluded environment of the shrinking village. Years passed. He was home-schooled but never paid much attention to books. He preferred to roam the forest with his three close friends. Together, they witnessed the expropriation and cried when the company trucks came to raze the village.
The young man relocated in an anonymous apartment in the city with his fiancée. Unemployed and angry, he began to send threatening letters. Soon after, he assassinated five key managers of the big company.
Now policemen hunt the murderer in the forest, but he seems to be elusive.
That might be due to the fact that he died while a child. All five families of the village agreed not to declare his death, instead building his identity as if he was still alive, all in the hope he could later take responsibility for their revenge. He is a scapegoat for the murders they planned and committed together.
When the management of the greedy company decided not to compensate the backwater inhabitants of a forest despoiled by factories, a child fell sick because of the industrial waste, but survived.
For many years, the boy grew in the secluded environment of the shrinking village. Years passed. He was home-schooled but never paid much attention to books. He preferred to roam the forest with his three close friends. Together, they witnessed the expropriation and cried when the company trucks came to raze the village.
The young man relocated in an anonymous apartment in the city with his fiancée. Unemployed and angry, he began to send threatening letters. Soon after, he assassinated five key managers of the big company.
Now policemen hunt the murderer in the forest, but he seems to be elusive.
That might be due to the fact that he died while a child. All five families of the village agreed not to declare his death, instead building his identity as if he was still alive, all in the hope he could later take responsibility for their revenge. He is a scapegoat for the murders they planned and committed together.
We all won the Lottery
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
In the future, the world is an unhealthy place to live in, a warm pit of pollution. People spend their lives in a virtual world where life is easy and nobody starves. But, somehow, they are not happy. Only the rich can afford to spend more than a few days a year into the real world. Soon, the real world becomes like a First World country and the virtual world more like a Third World country. The lucky ones fear the consequences of "immigration" and brand it a problem. A process is devised to give some hope to the people stranded in virtuality: the Lottery. Somebody wins the Lottery, but his or her lover is stuck on the wrong side of existence.
In the future, the world is an unhealthy place to live in, a warm pit of pollution. People spend their lives in a virtual world where life is easy and nobody starves. But, somehow, they are not happy. Only the rich can afford to spend more than a few days a year into the real world. Soon, the real world becomes like a First World country and the virtual world more like a Third World country. The lucky ones fear the consequences of "immigration" and brand it a problem. A process is devised to give some hope to the people stranded in virtuality: the Lottery. Somebody wins the Lottery, but his or her lover is stuck on the wrong side of existence.
Genesis 19:26
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
God exists, but he is underpowered and understaffed. In 2011, he awakens from a long slumber and manages to reincarnate. He builds an organization to fulfill his long-term agenda of global peace. He does not tell the media and mundane politicians who he really is. But the truth trickles in some circles and a cadre of believers join him.
Using the Internet, God crowdsources the realization of a unique piece of art, providing specifications for the work of many artists and volunteers. Myriad of elements constitute this picture. No faithful manages to comprehend what it represents because the pieces are not put together.
That is, until God manages to broadcast it live on every screen on Earth. Then every viewer sees what Lot's wife saw, turns into salt, and global peace is achieved.
God exists, but he is underpowered and understaffed. In 2011, he awakens from a long slumber and manages to reincarnate. He builds an organization to fulfill his long-term agenda of global peace. He does not tell the media and mundane politicians who he really is. But the truth trickles in some circles and a cadre of believers join him.
Using the Internet, God crowdsources the realization of a unique piece of art, providing specifications for the work of many artists and volunteers. Myriad of elements constitute this picture. No faithful manages to comprehend what it represents because the pieces are not put together.
That is, until God manages to broadcast it live on every screen on Earth. Then every viewer sees what Lot's wife saw, turns into salt, and global peace is achieved.
The Great Rickroll
During a fabulous party, a baby god is born on the dance floor. Made of sweat and noise, it possesses men and women into dancing to the end of the night. But it manages to outlive the party and flees into the city. It spends the next few days wreaking havoc in the open spaces of offices or in churches. Where the godling passes, complete strangers commune to the frantic tunes of some pretty ridiculous songs. When the phenomenon reaches a police station, the government stops dismissing it and dispatches a motley team of specialists to annihilate or contain it. The agents discover they can only fight the noise elemental with different music.
Hijack
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
In prehistoric times, an alien civilization nudges humankind forward on the evolutionary path, then retreats to other regions of space to enjoy different flavors of life. Events unfold mechanically from then on. Once human technology reaches the adequate level, the master plan of the godfather race comes to fruition. It happens in a laboratory. Some of the scientists who research cures to diseases stumble upon the vaults of possibilities hidden into human genes. They unlock them and soon after devise efficient treatments.
The secondary effect, which behaves like an airborne virus, does not kick in before many months, and by then containment is not an option anymore. The human race undergoes a genetic reconfiguration on a global scale.
All the babies who get born after the scientists unleash what was hidden in the genetic vaults are not human babies. They are alien babies with alien bodies, waiting to host alien minds.
Alien machines detect these changes and alert the alien race, which sends millions of minds to Earth. These reincarnating hedonists are perfectly happy to enjoy the civilization humans built. They inherit the planet, its art, its cultures and its history. They begin to enjoy this flavor of life with the assistance of their aging parents.
Some humans object to the genocide perpetrated by their babies.
In prehistoric times, an alien civilization nudges humankind forward on the evolutionary path, then retreats to other regions of space to enjoy different flavors of life. Events unfold mechanically from then on. Once human technology reaches the adequate level, the master plan of the godfather race comes to fruition. It happens in a laboratory. Some of the scientists who research cures to diseases stumble upon the vaults of possibilities hidden into human genes. They unlock them and soon after devise efficient treatments.
The secondary effect, which behaves like an airborne virus, does not kick in before many months, and by then containment is not an option anymore. The human race undergoes a genetic reconfiguration on a global scale.
All the babies who get born after the scientists unleash what was hidden in the genetic vaults are not human babies. They are alien babies with alien bodies, waiting to host alien minds.
Alien machines detect these changes and alert the alien race, which sends millions of minds to Earth. These reincarnating hedonists are perfectly happy to enjoy the civilization humans built. They inherit the planet, its art, its cultures and its history. They begin to enjoy this flavor of life with the assistance of their aging parents.
Some humans object to the genocide perpetrated by their babies.
Old sin
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
A woman courts and marries a man who is the right hand of an organized crime overlord. She does so because a shadowy source told her her sister has been sold into sex slavery to the pervert boss and is detained in his fabulous mansion. The house is forbidden territory and neither police nor state will help the woman. The criminal organizes a week-long party for his 70th birthday, and invitations are given only to close associates and their spouses.
The woman has one week to rescue her sister before the party ends. But a rival of her husband performs a background check on her and tries to frame her as a policewoman. To prove her sincerity, she needs to kill somebody: one of the indentured servants of the criminal.
This servant was the shadowy source; his motivation was the love shared with the woman's captive sister.
A woman courts and marries a man who is the right hand of an organized crime overlord. She does so because a shadowy source told her her sister has been sold into sex slavery to the pervert boss and is detained in his fabulous mansion. The house is forbidden territory and neither police nor state will help the woman. The criminal organizes a week-long party for his 70th birthday, and invitations are given only to close associates and their spouses.
The woman has one week to rescue her sister before the party ends. But a rival of her husband performs a background check on her and tries to frame her as a policewoman. To prove her sincerity, she needs to kill somebody: one of the indentured servants of the criminal.
This servant was the shadowy source; his motivation was the love shared with the woman's captive sister.
Groundhog World
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
At six o'clock in the morning, Universal Time, time rewinds back to the day before. Everybody in the world experiences that return to the day before. Memories remain. Humanity relives what becomes known as the Day and, later, Day One.
After a few days, a new world emerges. Millions of people become criminals. Material wealth is squandered. Money is not accepted anywhere. The industry stops. A vast majority of people just spend quality time with their family. The best bottles of wine in the world are emptied every day.
Governments and good-willing people collaborate but fail to find a way to escape Day One. Some believe that the End Times are there, with nothing left after.
A few ethically advanced people discover they escape the time loop. They physically disappear from the next Day One and, instead, reach Day Two. People stuck in Day One can only speculate about their fate.
Day Two functions like Day One. It uses a version of History which begins immediately after Day One. It is populated with ethically advanced people from Day One, who remember everything, plus "natives" from Day Two who never relived Day One. Day Two "natives" can be persuaded to believe in Day One, but they can never advance to the next Day. Only saintly travelers from the former Day can hope to keep moving forward in time: there is a Day Three, a Day Four, etc. The pattern repeats. "Natives" from Day Three experienced a version of History where neither Day One nor Day Two were out of the ordinary.
A religion is founded on the belief that Day One is Hell and Day Seven is Paradise.
At six o'clock in the morning, Universal Time, time rewinds back to the day before. Everybody in the world experiences that return to the day before. Memories remain. Humanity relives what becomes known as the Day and, later, Day One.
After a few days, a new world emerges. Millions of people become criminals. Material wealth is squandered. Money is not accepted anywhere. The industry stops. A vast majority of people just spend quality time with their family. The best bottles of wine in the world are emptied every day.
Governments and good-willing people collaborate but fail to find a way to escape Day One. Some believe that the End Times are there, with nothing left after.
A few ethically advanced people discover they escape the time loop. They physically disappear from the next Day One and, instead, reach Day Two. People stuck in Day One can only speculate about their fate.
Day Two functions like Day One. It uses a version of History which begins immediately after Day One. It is populated with ethically advanced people from Day One, who remember everything, plus "natives" from Day Two who never relived Day One. Day Two "natives" can be persuaded to believe in Day One, but they can never advance to the next Day. Only saintly travelers from the former Day can hope to keep moving forward in time: there is a Day Three, a Day Four, etc. The pattern repeats. "Natives" from Day Three experienced a version of History where neither Day One nor Day Two were out of the ordinary.
A religion is founded on the belief that Day One is Hell and Day Seven is Paradise.
The plane game
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
A young woman in Africa dreams of living in Europe. Every day, she sits on a chair by the window and pretends she is a passenger in a plane. She daydreams she is on an important international trip. She holds a dummy cell phone a street merchant once sold to her father and imagines she is using it for business.
Her parents give her a real cell phone. While she plays her plane game, the phone rings. At the other end of the line, a voice requests instructions regarding the new store in Paris.
A young woman in Africa dreams of living in Europe. Every day, she sits on a chair by the window and pretends she is a passenger in a plane. She daydreams she is on an important international trip. She holds a dummy cell phone a street merchant once sold to her father and imagines she is using it for business.
Her parents give her a real cell phone. While she plays her plane game, the phone rings. At the other end of the line, a voice requests instructions regarding the new store in Paris.
Strange comrades
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
For decades, a branch of the Russian government has been subcontracting to a shadow partner the maintenance and operation of a secret prison. The inmates are all supernatural creatures, sentient or not, captured over four decades by a group of specialized hunters.
The director created the prison in Soviet Russia because the country used to afford an adequate level of secrecy. As a side effect, the inmates have all undergone extensive indoctrination in old school communism. Perestroika never reached the prison.
Due to recent changes in the country, the director of the prison wishes to transport all the inmates to a new and more secure site in the Pacific Ocean. That is what he tells them; the truth is, after decades of capturing supernatural creatures, he has enough supernatural souls at his disposal to power the powerful ritual that is his endgame. This will allow him to resurrect many dark spirits.
A group of inmates decide to break free in the cargo that brings them to the site of the ritual. The revolt is quelled but the core of the rebels manage to escape in a submarine. The director decides to proceed with the ritual. Undead rise from the sea, possessed by the ghosts of Nazi Germany. The director is imprisoned by the worst of the undead, who takes control of the operation. All the while the Communist dwarves, ogres and werewolves sail on their submarine to save the world and destroy Wall Street.
Edit: too uninspired as it is. Let's replace the words Russian, Russia, Germany and Wall Street by Hag, Land of the Hags, Land of the Trolls and Wall of Gold. This is a fantasy setting two millenia after the great battles between Good and Evil. Inhabitants of the world have lost their sense of purpose. All kinds of ideologies thrive in the emptiness left when the gods died.
For decades, a branch of the Russian government has been subcontracting to a shadow partner the maintenance and operation of a secret prison. The inmates are all supernatural creatures, sentient or not, captured over four decades by a group of specialized hunters.
The director created the prison in Soviet Russia because the country used to afford an adequate level of secrecy. As a side effect, the inmates have all undergone extensive indoctrination in old school communism. Perestroika never reached the prison.
Due to recent changes in the country, the director of the prison wishes to transport all the inmates to a new and more secure site in the Pacific Ocean. That is what he tells them; the truth is, after decades of capturing supernatural creatures, he has enough supernatural souls at his disposal to power the powerful ritual that is his endgame. This will allow him to resurrect many dark spirits.
A group of inmates decide to break free in the cargo that brings them to the site of the ritual. The revolt is quelled but the core of the rebels manage to escape in a submarine. The director decides to proceed with the ritual. Undead rise from the sea, possessed by the ghosts of Nazi Germany. The director is imprisoned by the worst of the undead, who takes control of the operation. All the while the Communist dwarves, ogres and werewolves sail on their submarine to save the world and destroy Wall Street.
Edit: too uninspired as it is. Let's replace the words Russian, Russia, Germany and Wall Street by Hag, Land of the Hags, Land of the Trolls and Wall of Gold. This is a fantasy setting two millenia after the great battles between Good and Evil. Inhabitants of the world have lost their sense of purpose. All kinds of ideologies thrive in the emptiness left when the gods died.
Summon Monster
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
The shaman of a primitive tribe on the verge of extinction manages to perform a powerful ritual. He can now use his staff to conjure a strange species of demons. These creatures come from another plane of existence. They look quite strange (what with their odd eyes and clothes), behave like they are afraid (a pretense to put would-be masters at ease) and know all manners of bizarre tricks (including useful knowledge). The demons learn to speak the language of the tribe, then explain that the spell took them away without notice from their otherworldly hell. They beg for a way out.
Of course, the queen of the tribe denies their request and makes sure these dangerous entities are properly enslaved. She orders the shaman to conjure an army of demonic servants in order to wage wars against enemy tribes. Soon, an empire is born.
At some point, the entities rebel.
These things use a different name for themselves.
They call themselves "humans".
The shaman of a primitive tribe on the verge of extinction manages to perform a powerful ritual. He can now use his staff to conjure a strange species of demons. These creatures come from another plane of existence. They look quite strange (what with their odd eyes and clothes), behave like they are afraid (a pretense to put would-be masters at ease) and know all manners of bizarre tricks (including useful knowledge). The demons learn to speak the language of the tribe, then explain that the spell took them away without notice from their otherworldly hell. They beg for a way out.
Of course, the queen of the tribe denies their request and makes sure these dangerous entities are properly enslaved. She orders the shaman to conjure an army of demonic servants in order to wage wars against enemy tribes. Soon, an empire is born.
At some point, the entities rebel.
These things use a different name for themselves.
They call themselves "humans".
New Ravage
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
The year is 2052. The rain forest is a garden, the abyss is a swimming pool and the sky is dotted with planes and satellites. Random encounters are computer-made. Everything bears the mark, and often the stench, of civilization. What people eat, who they meet, opportunities they get, all depend on unnatural formulas and their ability to game them. Soon after nature becomes an artefact, nature becomes an artefact. The garden is a rain forest. Everything has a reason. The souls of men starve, unable to feed anymore, garroted by pregnant meanings.
A new brand of warriors, champions of unmade chaos, launch a crusade. They fight the laws with other laws and seed destruction in the tower of causality. In the end, at the very moment Earth hits the Singularity, the dark terrorists attack. A Planckian shockwave changes the rules and removes the base fuel of algorithmic civilization: artificial electricity. Without power, governments and organizations of all kinds cease to function. Access to communication networks is removed. TV and radio become silent. Whole countries starve to death.
The year is 2052. The rain forest is a garden, the abyss is a swimming pool and the sky is dotted with planes and satellites. Random encounters are computer-made. Everything bears the mark, and often the stench, of civilization. What people eat, who they meet, opportunities they get, all depend on unnatural formulas and their ability to game them. Soon after nature becomes an artefact, nature becomes an artefact. The garden is a rain forest. Everything has a reason. The souls of men starve, unable to feed anymore, garroted by pregnant meanings.
A new brand of warriors, champions of unmade chaos, launch a crusade. They fight the laws with other laws and seed destruction in the tower of causality. In the end, at the very moment Earth hits the Singularity, the dark terrorists attack. A Planckian shockwave changes the rules and removes the base fuel of algorithmic civilization: artificial electricity. Without power, governments and organizations of all kinds cease to function. Access to communication networks is removed. TV and radio become silent. Whole countries starve to death.
Bad memories
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
Live action roleplaying games become mass market entertainment by the mid-30's, thanks to powerful and cheap augmented reality technology. Players can rely upon artificial "smart memories", full-blown personalities, to enhance their fun and their appreciation of the experience. Some of these players pretend to be monsters in a very violent setting where cutthroat politics are the rule.
One day, something goes wrong at the end of a game. Players do not stop playing and instead keep acting like they are dark creatures. By the time the problem is investigated, containment is not possible anymore. The company which publishes persona has been overtaken by one ambitious "vampire" and has begun the global distribution of very, very unwholesome personalities... Rooting them out becomes the top priority of law enforcement everywhere in the world.
The problem with the ladies
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
It begins with a few weird rumors. A disease that only affects women. Quickly, the rumors acquire the strange quality of unexpected cataclysms. The disease is highly contagious. The women lose their mind. The first few officially diagnosed cases create an official panic.
All around the world, the minds of afflicted women begin to revert to primitive and even animal thinking. Only the most basic functions remain. Open the fridge. Eat. Left unattended, victims do not manage to procure food and become aggressive, not unlike starving dogs.
Only one thing prevents or reverts this degradation. If a sick woman experiences a climax, she regains all capacities. Women need one climax a day to remain functional.
Pandemic. The economy crumbles as people realize that no amount of emotional blackmail manages to induce women back into sanity and the workstation, let alone the kitchen. Children beg for attention. Wars stop. The disease becomes the only event, the permanent headline.
After two weeks, the world smells. The United Nations launch a global plan to teach sex best practices; everywhere in the world, leaflets about masturbation are circulated to a wide audience in just about every language. Everybody and her cousin hire men and women skilled in the ways to properly stimulate climaxes. Wild becomes the norm. Men cook.
Scientists announce they are about to find a cure. Their conference ends in a boom. A faction of female terrorists threaten any who would follow their example.
On the long run, the number of climaxes in the world raises to unprecedented levels. Thanks to the effort, women get back to work.
It begins with a few weird rumors. A disease that only affects women. Quickly, the rumors acquire the strange quality of unexpected cataclysms. The disease is highly contagious. The women lose their mind. The first few officially diagnosed cases create an official panic.
All around the world, the minds of afflicted women begin to revert to primitive and even animal thinking. Only the most basic functions remain. Open the fridge. Eat. Left unattended, victims do not manage to procure food and become aggressive, not unlike starving dogs.
Only one thing prevents or reverts this degradation. If a sick woman experiences a climax, she regains all capacities. Women need one climax a day to remain functional.
Pandemic. The economy crumbles as people realize that no amount of emotional blackmail manages to induce women back into sanity and the workstation, let alone the kitchen. Children beg for attention. Wars stop. The disease becomes the only event, the permanent headline.
After two weeks, the world smells. The United Nations launch a global plan to teach sex best practices; everywhere in the world, leaflets about masturbation are circulated to a wide audience in just about every language. Everybody and her cousin hire men and women skilled in the ways to properly stimulate climaxes. Wild becomes the norm. Men cook.
Scientists announce they are about to find a cure. Their conference ends in a boom. A faction of female terrorists threaten any who would follow their example.
On the long run, the number of climaxes in the world raises to unprecedented levels. Thanks to the effort, women get back to work.
I know where you live
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
A serial killer targets people whose private information is involuntarily or unknowingly made public. He views himself as the angel of everything that is wrong with society.
For decades, he used to kill people whose phone number was disclosed on TV or in movies. He privileged victims whose numbers were not advertised as real numbers. TV and radio drama writers who used dummy numbers set aside for this very purpose instead of random numbers unwittingly saved many lives.
Nowadays, the killer has gone digital. He spends time on Facebook and forums searching for the perfect victim: somebody who sets strong privacy parameters which end up circumvented by a third party in a big way, with no real harm intended.
A serial killer targets people whose private information is involuntarily or unknowingly made public. He views himself as the angel of everything that is wrong with society.
For decades, he used to kill people whose phone number was disclosed on TV or in movies. He privileged victims whose numbers were not advertised as real numbers. TV and radio drama writers who used dummy numbers set aside for this very purpose instead of random numbers unwittingly saved many lives.
Nowadays, the killer has gone digital. He spends time on Facebook and forums searching for the perfect victim: somebody who sets strong privacy parameters which end up circumvented by a third party in a big way, with no real harm intended.
Super Pills
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
One day, strange packages, like the ones with action figures, fall from the sky into the schoolyard during break time, while the children are playing. A crowd of kids gathers. Each package features an illustration, a few short instructions and a colored pill. If eaten, each pill procures a super-power!
After a few seconds, the children all rush to grab a package, unwrap it and swallow the magical pill. A few fistfights erupt. Some noses get slightly bloodied and much crying ensues.
Powers are so much fun: some children can now fly, play marbles with their mind or turn invisible at will. Unlucky kids are stuck with useless powers, such as becoming a math genius or turning wood into some kind of a yellow metal.
After a memorable incident involving a were-elephant practicing her newfound power of transformation, teachers prohibit the use of powers in the classroom.
After some time, children discover that the pills only provide a limited number of uses. The ones who used theirs up to amaze friends are the first ones to lose special abilities.
In the end, all but one exhaust their allotted magic. Only one kid decides not to spend his last use.The kids speak about the events for some time, then they forget about the whole episode and they move on to new things.
The last kid grows and becomes a parent. It is bedtime. The parent tells his story to his child who keeps switching the flashlight back on instead of sleeping. Now, is the child convinced trying to read under the blanket would be futile with a parent who can magically know what's going on?
One day, strange packages, like the ones with action figures, fall from the sky into the schoolyard during break time, while the children are playing. A crowd of kids gathers. Each package features an illustration, a few short instructions and a colored pill. If eaten, each pill procures a super-power!
After a few seconds, the children all rush to grab a package, unwrap it and swallow the magical pill. A few fistfights erupt. Some noses get slightly bloodied and much crying ensues.
Powers are so much fun: some children can now fly, play marbles with their mind or turn invisible at will. Unlucky kids are stuck with useless powers, such as becoming a math genius or turning wood into some kind of a yellow metal.
After a memorable incident involving a were-elephant practicing her newfound power of transformation, teachers prohibit the use of powers in the classroom.
After some time, children discover that the pills only provide a limited number of uses. The ones who used theirs up to amaze friends are the first ones to lose special abilities.
In the end, all but one exhaust their allotted magic. Only one kid decides not to spend his last use.The kids speak about the events for some time, then they forget about the whole episode and they move on to new things.
The last kid grows and becomes a parent. It is bedtime. The parent tells his story to his child who keeps switching the flashlight back on instead of sleeping. Now, is the child convinced trying to read under the blanket would be futile with a parent who can magically know what's going on?
The wisdom of dead people
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
In the future, the social network gathers almost the total sum of human interactions. People show so much about themselves on so long a timeframe that computers become able to essentially mimic them. This function is useful on many levels and widely used. People get rewarded for building the product and the tool that their persona is.
As a result, dead people can still interact with living ones, or look like they can. They pass Turing's Test. Orphans express grief to parents, partners ask advice to dead associates, politicians flock to deceased leaders in hope of arbitration and guidance. Dead people's memories and opinions become an ever growing part of society. The persona have no solid legal status, but they still need to be convinced like normal human beings before giving out their knowledge and love.
Another stage results from the thirst for life extension. Processes are devised to assure that everybody gets a chance to live a very long time. When people die, cybernetic implants in the skull inject chemicals designed to preserve the brain. The connections to the network remain, the best to keep the brain active and to monitor its health. Dead people, assisted with their persona, are granted rights. Policies are put in place to protect their interests. The influence of people who passed away grows in the society.
At some point, dead people outnumber living people. They perform many functions with robotic bodies. The interests of the living are less and less of a concern.
In the end, to prevent them from pulling the plug, robotic death squads kill every human being still alive, making sure their brain is not damaged and greeting them into the community of the dead.
In the future, the social network gathers almost the total sum of human interactions. People show so much about themselves on so long a timeframe that computers become able to essentially mimic them. This function is useful on many levels and widely used. People get rewarded for building the product and the tool that their persona is.
As a result, dead people can still interact with living ones, or look like they can. They pass Turing's Test. Orphans express grief to parents, partners ask advice to dead associates, politicians flock to deceased leaders in hope of arbitration and guidance. Dead people's memories and opinions become an ever growing part of society. The persona have no solid legal status, but they still need to be convinced like normal human beings before giving out their knowledge and love.
Another stage results from the thirst for life extension. Processes are devised to assure that everybody gets a chance to live a very long time. When people die, cybernetic implants in the skull inject chemicals designed to preserve the brain. The connections to the network remain, the best to keep the brain active and to monitor its health. Dead people, assisted with their persona, are granted rights. Policies are put in place to protect their interests. The influence of people who passed away grows in the society.
At some point, dead people outnumber living people. They perform many functions with robotic bodies. The interests of the living are less and less of a concern.
In the end, to prevent them from pulling the plug, robotic death squads kill every human being still alive, making sure their brain is not damaged and greeting them into the community of the dead.
Once upon a crime
One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
In the future, there are no more prisons. The criminally insane exist only as pure minds. The nickname of their virtual home is Hell, but it is a pleasant hell, a quasi-perfect replica of reality designed to prevent them from hurting other people. It is not an empty place; its inhabitants do coexist with projections of people from "Paradise" but they are, of course, unable to physically hurt them in the real world. Paradise is our world enhanced with augmented reality. Normal people carry augmented reality devices which enable them to interact safely with sex predators, religious wackos and criminal masterminds. People from Hell are allowed back into reality when their minds heal and they atone from their crimes. The less discrepancies between their version of reality and the actual reality, the quicker the get out. Some take a long time, but their rampages cause only illusory pain.
The hero is in Hell, but something is wrong with Paradise. Redemption seems to become impossible; Heaven's gate is closed. The inhabitants of Hell seem to forget they do live in a fake world, to believe they live in Paradise. The hero wants to investigate what happened in the real world, if there is such a thing...
In the future, there are no more prisons. The criminally insane exist only as pure minds. The nickname of their virtual home is Hell, but it is a pleasant hell, a quasi-perfect replica of reality designed to prevent them from hurting other people. It is not an empty place; its inhabitants do coexist with projections of people from "Paradise" but they are, of course, unable to physically hurt them in the real world. Paradise is our world enhanced with augmented reality. Normal people carry augmented reality devices which enable them to interact safely with sex predators, religious wackos and criminal masterminds. People from Hell are allowed back into reality when their minds heal and they atone from their crimes. The less discrepancies between their version of reality and the actual reality, the quicker the get out. Some take a long time, but their rampages cause only illusory pain.
The hero is in Hell, but something is wrong with Paradise. Redemption seems to become impossible; Heaven's gate is closed. The inhabitants of Hell seem to forget they do live in a fake world, to believe they live in Paradise. The hero wants to investigate what happened in the real world, if there is such a thing...
The gang
It all began at the beach. I was rumbling my head on a piece of cloth and I was a child again, summer holidays at the beach, you know the feeling. My head was deep into the cloth and it was green and there was light beyond. For a moment, I had forgotten I was in Phoenix Park next to the obelisk, in Dublin of all places, freshly unemployed and already in debt.
Then the spell broke as Shitty John told me to pass along the cloth and I realised half my life had already passed by.
One piece of cloth for four guys. That says a lot of things about our organisational skills, and perhaps we should have stopped at that and just gone home and got some sleep. Instead, we decided to go to the pub.
I'm sweating like a paedophile on a playground, muttered John.
We are not the fittest guys in town, and playing tag rugby, even for training, just drains us all of every ounce of sweat hidden in our skin. And don't begin with the tag rugby is a girlish sport thing. In tag rugby, there is rugby, so we are like, real, mean, men. There are also actual girls and you are allowed, kinda, to touch them. That was the impression that decided us to get part of this team thing.
We all look like dogs splattering in the river.
We have not won a game so far. The best we lost 7-22, and that was a reason for celebration. The captain is disappointed. He is not officially the captain, though. Our team has no captain, but we listen to him because he is, like, fit, and he brings the ball for the training, so obviously he knows his shit. We call him Dread Seb. In another life, he must have been Chabal, the French rugbyman out of Neanderthalia. In this one, he leads a bunch of amateur losers.
Seb stresses out the importance of the team spirit, of building it and of respecting the fucking line. Yes boss, we know about the line. You gotta respect the line, stay in it and just keep it.
He's got a point though and, little by little, it crosses our mind that he is right, that we should in fact build our team spirit.
That was the rationale for the pub, all along.
Dermot's car is not old, give her that. But it's already got the feeling of an old car. He puts music on and he drives. He knows all the lyrics by heart. Mumbled words and melodies are on his lips. We pass by girls. Suddenly, he beeps and honks a bit, and waves to an empty side-walk the other way while the girls turn back to look at us. And then he grins. He looks so old, but he is not 30.
Only the four of us remain. The girls have long left.
So we keep digging and digging around the concept of the team. It devolves into get rich quick schemes. It was bound to. When you see the price of one pint of Smithwicks nowadays, and the way the mates guzzle the fuel down like a trucker on its way back to Warsaw... You just cannot rely on the willingness of The Economy to provide for us.
No one of us has practical experience of crime and related activities, beyond jaywalking. Dermot is hailing from the lowlands of Northern Ireland and, as such, is proficient in criminal endeavours such as drunk driving or insulting people without them having the slightest hint about it because of the accent.
What that means is, and I spell it out because I am the coward type:
Let us be a tiny bit cautious guys. In prison they have, you know, prison sex, and I don't want to be on the receiving end of that.
We proceed with the plan-making. We design processes. We discard the Internet for communication, because we know you are spying on us, whoever.
The battle language is Eric's idea of an efficient communication within the gang. It is something out of a science-fiction novel or something. Nobody cares about it much except that Eric is adamant about using it and it is like the only way we can get an answer out of his Viking chest.
Written 2009-2010. To be continued on Eric's blog... here (2012-01-17)!
Then the spell broke as Shitty John told me to pass along the cloth and I realised half my life had already passed by.
One piece of cloth for four guys. That says a lot of things about our organisational skills, and perhaps we should have stopped at that and just gone home and got some sleep. Instead, we decided to go to the pub.
I'm sweating like a paedophile on a playground, muttered John.
We are not the fittest guys in town, and playing tag rugby, even for training, just drains us all of every ounce of sweat hidden in our skin. And don't begin with the tag rugby is a girlish sport thing. In tag rugby, there is rugby, so we are like, real, mean, men. There are also actual girls and you are allowed, kinda, to touch them. That was the impression that decided us to get part of this team thing.
We all look like dogs splattering in the river.
We have not won a game so far. The best we lost 7-22, and that was a reason for celebration. The captain is disappointed. He is not officially the captain, though. Our team has no captain, but we listen to him because he is, like, fit, and he brings the ball for the training, so obviously he knows his shit. We call him Dread Seb. In another life, he must have been Chabal, the French rugbyman out of Neanderthalia. In this one, he leads a bunch of amateur losers.
Seb stresses out the importance of the team spirit, of building it and of respecting the fucking line. Yes boss, we know about the line. You gotta respect the line, stay in it and just keep it.
He's got a point though and, little by little, it crosses our mind that he is right, that we should in fact build our team spirit.
That was the rationale for the pub, all along.
Dermot's car is not old, give her that. But it's already got the feeling of an old car. He puts music on and he drives. He knows all the lyrics by heart. Mumbled words and melodies are on his lips. We pass by girls. Suddenly, he beeps and honks a bit, and waves to an empty side-walk the other way while the girls turn back to look at us. And then he grins. He looks so old, but he is not 30.
Only the four of us remain. The girls have long left.
So we keep digging and digging around the concept of the team. It devolves into get rich quick schemes. It was bound to. When you see the price of one pint of Smithwicks nowadays, and the way the mates guzzle the fuel down like a trucker on its way back to Warsaw... You just cannot rely on the willingness of The Economy to provide for us.
No one of us has practical experience of crime and related activities, beyond jaywalking. Dermot is hailing from the lowlands of Northern Ireland and, as such, is proficient in criminal endeavours such as drunk driving or insulting people without them having the slightest hint about it because of the accent.
What that means is, and I spell it out because I am the coward type:
Let us be a tiny bit cautious guys. In prison they have, you know, prison sex, and I don't want to be on the receiving end of that.
We proceed with the plan-making. We design processes. We discard the Internet for communication, because we know you are spying on us, whoever.
The battle language is Eric's idea of an efficient communication within the gang. It is something out of a science-fiction novel or something. Nobody cares about it much except that Eric is adamant about using it and it is like the only way we can get an answer out of his Viking chest.
Written 2009-2010. To be continued on Eric's blog... here (2012-01-17)!
A short night
Some kind of emergency signal is blaring. After a vain and quick struggle, barricaded under a large pillow, the fat man fails to contain the noise and awakes. The cabin is empty but for him, a mound of clothes and what could pass as a bed in a place with little room and taste.
INTRUDER ALERT, says the alarm in the alien language.
The fat man gets dressed in a hurry, checks his weapons and prepares to open the door.
Sudden silence takes him off balance.
He stops before committing to the lock, pays attention like a bad kid at school in a streak of concentration.
Silence, silence and a big fat door.
He moves the lock with dancer's grace and slides through into the unknown. Barely thinking: not now, not now, not now...
A DIFFERENT SCREAM/ALERT. Some system is hurting.
Fat man goes hunting.
INTRUDER ALERT, says the alarm in the alien language.
The fat man gets dressed in a hurry, checks his weapons and prepares to open the door.
Sudden silence takes him off balance.
He stops before committing to the lock, pays attention like a bad kid at school in a streak of concentration.
Silence, silence and a big fat door.
He moves the lock with dancer's grace and slides through into the unknown. Barely thinking: not now, not now, not now...
A DIFFERENT SCREAM/ALERT. Some system is hurting.
Fat man goes hunting.
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