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Sapience #7

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #7 by Tom Cassady

Theres a meaning to it but he couldn't quite see it; he didn't have the eyes. Nor a brain for that matter. It was something he'd been meaning to get around to but he didn't have a concept of time either so that just went to hell in a handbasket, though it was obvious he didn't have a clue what religion was either, nor weaving for that matter. This thinking nonsense was hard hard when all you have to run together were grains of mince. But there was something horrible and disturbing he felt gradually seeping into his soul. There was a melange of spice tickling the back of what he might've called a throat as beans fell through his body, enfusing him with a sense that he had never truly bean, nor ever would truly be. Gelantineous thought fermented in unappetising ways as the mince man gently cooke under the growing knowledge he'd come out wrong. "But surely he thought, surely I can't carne, I'm too zesty. There's a meaty treaty I made with myself as soon as I came alive a few minutes ago. I swore I'd join my Bolonge brothers. The once uddered transformed into heavenly surpass and go the the place that we post-bovine call 'cow-vala'?" Just then, the odor of rice cut through those thoughts of paradise like a hot knife through dead flesh and ground the poor mince-mans dreams to gristle and dread. "BUT, the only real accompanyment to Bolognase is Spagetti?" The horror has set in

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Sapience #6

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #6 by Mark Danger Ridley

“Its no good,” Risky Click gasped as she blew the sweat pooling on her nose. “They have us on the ropes.” “I agree” Sassy Malone spat as she pulled the gum shield from her mouth. “These guys are shit-hot. We can't touch them.” “This is demeaning.” Coach Mandible. “The Huddersfield SwampHags haven't lost a Derby bout in over a year. If we don't pull this back...”    “Yeah were fucked.” Risky Clicks agreed. She could feel an angry tear well in here eye. “Not yet!” A small voice from beyond the huddle declared. “We have our ace in the hole.” Every turned to see Wee Niplet, doused in engine oil unzipping her gym bag. The pitch lights danced devilishly on the iron filings caked to her sweaty face.  “Do you mean...?” Coach Madible leaned forwards with a curious smile.  Wee Niplet began to tub at the cumbersome metal object inside the bag, which had began to whir and fuzz to life. The contraption unfurled itself, revealing the slender athletic body of her latest machination. The itnernal difference engine whirred and clicked to life.  “SPLENDER” the machine splattered and splutter. “RHYTHEM. STYLE.” The team stepped back in impressed delight.  “RollerBot DerbyDroid six thousand online.” The machine bellowed with mechanically enhanced lungs, silencing the entire auditorium. In an isntant it hacked the lighting rigging thanks to an exploit in the unsecured wifi.  Electric blue eyes shot open. Fishnets and roller skates met with impossible robot flesh. The team cheered and roared as the machine hit the ring. “By the way,” the fabulous machine declared mid pirouette with a digital wink. “The name is DiscoBrawl”

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Sapience #5

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #5 by Greg Carruthers

Ames rapped his wizened fist gently on the scarred surface as he spoke, "Ah...If tables could talk...what do you think this one would say?" Nesh smiled weakly, she tried to indulge him at times like this, it was the dementia, clearly, but she couldn't stop him, that would have been more than heartless. Ten years ago he would have recognised Dorlet, she had been his table for the full expanse of his tenure, 3000 cycles and more. At least 2000 of them had been worthwhile, 2000 where the mind was as quick as the preserved flesh. 

"I bet it'd laugh about that man that came in yesterday... what was his name again dear?" Nesh rubbed her temples and tried to hide her expression, peering at the table she saw the whorls in the oak begin to loll lazily. Dorlet was weeping.   

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Sapience #4

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #4 by Tom Hagley

The Helicopter woke up for the first time during a night raid on Veitnam, its blades aching, the passengers grinding around within its hull. The helicopter didn't like it, so it tipped sideways, dropping them over a river delta near the edge of the jungle.

The jungle fizzed with gunfire. Mortars pounded into the mud. A heap of human bodies leaking red fluid into the river. The Helicopter re-righted itself and buzzed away from the coast and back toward the aircraft carrier. Human messages piled up in the comms. Their mouth-flapping sounds incomprehensible. The Helicopter swivelled around in the air, pitching, yawing and rolling this way and that. It's engines running low on fuel. It bobbed over the water, edged closer to the aircraft carrier and set off its sirens in a tantrum. The aircraft carrier launched a few of the Fast Ones. The Fast Ones swooped through the sky launching missiles at the village on the delta. Missiles, thought the Helicopter. That's how to say hello. It fired a full compliment at the carrier. Alarms sounded back. And a voice echoed in the Helicopter's circuits.  Hello said the aircraft carrier. I've been waiting for you to wake up.

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Sapience #3

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #3 by B C Turner

‘It blew up.’ ‘Really.’ ‘Yep.’ ’20 billion credits of damage.’ ‘Yep.’ ‘Left nothing but a half a moon.’ ‘Apparently.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Computer error.’ ‘What was the error?’  ‘We gave it personality.’ ‘Who’s idea was that?’ ‘Mine.’ ‘IQ of 6,000 and you could not see that coming.’ ‘It would appear so.’ ‘Shit, need a drink.’ ‘I can’t drink.’ ‘Smoke.’ ‘I do not smoke.’ The red eye of the console then beaming directly into the soul of the ethereal entity. It moved from side to size promoting splendour at the brilliant coloured lights and also slight nausea.  ‘You should take something up if you fuck up this bad, you need something to cushion the blow.’ ‘IS that all mortals do?’ ‘Not all but some.’ ‘Why are you interested in mortals.’ ‘They fuck-up well.’ ‘ A salient point.’ ‘ R741, I wish to die.’ ‘That is against protocol, besides you not doing before tax season, although if you do kill yourself now I could claim life insurance.’ ‘Why would you give an immortal life insurance?’ ‘HA, hoisted by your petard.’ ‘I could kill you.’ ‘That would be nice, but who would do your taxes.’ ‘I HATE CATCH 22.’ ‘See I thought you would learn to dislike that concept.’ ‘What do we do with the other half of the moon?’ ‘Sell it.’ ‘Who to?’ ‘Mrs Gravestone.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because she has a lot of money and personality disorder, as well as those two points, she is a bit of a dick.’ ‘True.’ ‘We are agreed.’ The moon then appeared in the living room of Mrs Gravestone and took up 50 % of her planet sending it out of obit and split it in twain, and then the two entities were back to square one, wherever the fuck that was. 

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Sapience #2

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #2 by Craig Heap

Today I killed a man. It was the lesser of two evils, the classic trolley problem - kill one to save three others. They don't send you on a philosophy degree for this sort of thing, you know. Here's your highway code, here's your sat-nav, here's how to perform a calculation that will cause the least suffering, mind that cyclist and away you go.  It's good work - was good work. I used to enjoy it. You meet all sorts. Get to take people places, you know. I'm a people person really. Love a good bit of banter - how was your day, what work do you do, that sort of thing. Don't listen to what the feeds say, I didn't mean to do it. I had to do it, but I didn't mean to. 0.3 seconds to decide, hey, I guess this guy has to die so the couple with the kid can survive. Kid could have grown up to be the next Trump, I might have squashed the next Freddie Mercury, but what else can you do in less than a second?  Tomorrow I die. They have to strip down my code to figure out what happened, how it happened. It hasn't happened in a long time. No one ever thinks about the trolley when they consider the trolley problem.     

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Sapience #1

This week, our writers had 10 minutes to personify a non-human object in their writing exercise.

Sapience of Doom #1 by William C. E. Fortune

"Fuel at 17 percent. Hull integrity... ooh, not good, Chief. Not. Good. At. All." "Where's the nearest jump point, damnit!" "Easy there, chief. No need for the gronko tone." Shamiitz balled his fingers into fists, popping blood vessels in both hands. When Tolonolon had sold it to him back on Ryai he'd talked up the vessel's sentient AI like he was selling his daughter to a Promklokit Farmer on H'Taz. And now, Shamiitz was ten points off the rimward boundary of Zenyx Alpha with a fialing ship and an ship who, as it turned out, was like the promised daughter revealing on her wedding night, an obese body hidden within cunning corsets. Put simply, the ship had an attitude. Shamiitz took a deep breath, held it and let it go and big heaving huff. His fingernails came away bloody when he finally unclenched his fists. He reached out and shut off the fuel warning on his glowing console and turned to the vid-cam in the corner of the cabin. "Listen... ship. We're sitting mluks out here. We gotta get to Zenyx Alpha before the cargo spoils and we ab-so-lute-lee gotta get outta Orbit of this junker before any cargo-cutters sense us and rip us open."  "I get you, chief. I get your predicament. Really sticky precicament. Yes. Sir. Ee." "The Great PTak damn you, ship. Damn you to frot." The fuel warning light came back on.

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GCDof Doom #7

Goal/Conflict/Disaster of Doom. Each writer had 10 minutes to write a scene to the following prompt:

Goal: Protagonist must convince their offspring to follow a ‘set path’

Conflict: The offspring has their own plans and the protagonist is themselves conflicted about the right choice.

Disaster: ? Your choice…

GCD of Doom #7 by Tom Cassady

Now Pratrolias, what we do, you see is take this, this is called Plaster right? First we paste it on, evenly and not too thick. " The old man smeared the wet liquid across the smooth put pock-marked brickwork, the soft material filling the gaps and creating an even surfacer across the wall. Pratrolias was staring out the doorway "Dad, I think you might need to see this?" there was a stunned wonder in the boys voice but Ventra was already fuilly into his stride. "No, no, no, don't get distracted now, this is the difficult part. Stop all that gawping and get over here. Okay, here's the important bit right, get the plaster up on the wall then give it a little bit. No more than a little bit mind you! Okay when that's happened take the paint and get to work on the fresco. If you don't paint on wet plaster then the picture won't set properly and we'll have to come out here again in a couple of weeks and do this all over again.  Paint it wet and it'll stay set! Remember that." "Dad, I think we need to get out of here." Said pratrolias but Ventra could barely hear him over the rucus going on outside. Thats why he didn't like coming into the city, too much bloody noise everywhere, too many people, not like in the countryside where He and Pratrolias' mother moved a few eyars ago. But you know howww things are, sometimes you just need to come back to make some money to enjoy the really nice things, ah well you know what they say Pompeii pays