#space party

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-valves]

Reasons I like rescue bots academy #501:

They say primes don't party.

BUT RATCHET DOES

[danismm]

“Steel Couture” by Syd Mead, 1980.

[annermations]

That joke was pretty... out of this world!

[jovishark]

some stans and kyles from that vague interdimensional hotel conference room

the room with all the kyles in it is the worst one because they all think theyre better than each other and none of them are right

[spacebookettes]

Nobody Designs Clothes for Lesbians

Clothing is designed for Women, it is designed for men, and for gay men... hardly any clothing is designed for lesbians... not to mention all the people in between.

So it came as great surprise when the new great designer called her clothing line AirHeadS. The models were butch stereotypes, who looked pissed at having to be models; but the job of, stereotypes must always be challenged, was fun.

The great designer mixed the stereotyped clothing with something with more colour, though a little ‘sporty'. Of course the butch models complained about the hairstyles, even the ones that still had an undercut. The printing of a giant capital B rotated clockwise onto it’s side and placed on the chest of some ‘sporty’ T was, ironically, for some going too far. But the great designer revelled in it all. Extremely shiny awful shoes, decorated with faux 90s, 1990s, computer game characters in girly pink, were the great designers favourite touch.

The End

By Peter Stringer

Common Room

A sixth form common room, kids chilling, one stares over to where no one else is looking and a disturbance flickers silently in the air... then a future warrior woman with tech stuck to her arms and body armour, fades into view... she looks around checks her arm equipment, presses a button and fades out. No one else sees it happen... just the one kid.

By Peter Stringer

Strange Woman

Strange Woman had a problem, the kids outside the local shop. They always noticed her. They always shouted strange things at the Strange Woman… she always hissed back at them. Though they really were more confident than she was.

The Strange Woman sat in her house, with a view over the valley townscape of streetlights and mist. She could see the modern blue and green lights of the cinema, restaurants and shopping. Traffic lights blinked all along her vision through the large room window. The occasional factory steam, floodlit at night made for an otherworldly techno fantasy.. A distant shopping centre a galactic something refuelling. Helicopters occasionally made for hovering vehicles of the Cyber Police. A view the Strange Woman felt was equal to any high rise’s metropolis and open to greater interpretation. Some people are lucky with their views. Even the most modest housing in some tatty place can have the million dollar views, at just the right angle from the upstairs small bedroom window, if you stick your head out on a clear night you can see half of the new glorious tower cluster… and if you look in the opposite direction, the regular perpendicular line of lights that make the motorway, streaming off into the distance like some cyber highway or galactic landing site. Some people are lucky with their views.

An explosion somewhere in the Strange Woman’s view made her sit up from her dosing. For a moment it’s light had illuminated her whole front room as though daylight. In the distance a fire could be seen and another. Silence though was the view. She went to her local shop, the kids were there, unawares. They were about to scream something strange at the Strange Woman but stopped half mouth at the sight of an automated restaurant delivery box ramming a man getting out of one of the automated cars... the strange thing was that it kept ramming him, he fell over and it went for his head. There was a cry from inside the well lit shop. A shelf stacking contraption had thrown a can of All Day Breakfast at one of the assistants... it had a whole box of canned goods it was using as ammo. The automated car crashed through the window of the shop. The Strange Woman had jumped on the kids throwing them just to the side of the cars path. The car was stuck, it’s wheels spinning and skidding as it tried to break free of some part of the shops window.

The End

By Peter Stringer

The Marinara Trench

Ladies of the night, in vintage clothing started appearing one spring... around Edinburgh. Nobody thought anything much about it, at first.

The Night Ladies phones illuminated their faces in the gloom of a Scottish night. I don’t know what colour the streetlights were at this point in history, or how well they lit the streets. In my imagination they were sombre. So all the colours of the saturated phone world were the theatre lights of the Night Ladies faces... as though tourist attractions.

The tourists were fascinated by the vintage Night Ladies.

As though some new directive of the city organisers had planned it that way.

People actually thought they were an attraction. People loved it. People complained. The police were summoned. Someone paid all the Night Ladies legal costs.

Tourist’s started taking pictures with them. “really authentic" “how cheeky the Scottish are" “so clever" “I never would have thought of such a thing” “it couldn’t have happened not too long ago” “how modern" “cheeky scots"

The words spread about the cheeky Scottish ladies of the night. Mentions in the magazines. On the websites. In the apps. All around the world.

Everybody who came to Scotland wanted to have a pic with the Night Ladies. The money they received was not for their usual services. Everyone found it funny paying the Night Ladies for a pic, with a giggle. And every time the tourists asked why the Night Ladies were here the charms were turned off and silence.

Then one day the Night Ladies were gone.

The people wanted to know why. The word spread around the world. Discussed in magazines, websites and apps. Then the English parliament discussed.

A whole year and no sign of any vintage Night Ladies. In the papers, “We Should Ask the Other Ladies of the Night.” The ones in their flats were silent. The ones in the night lady organisations were silent. The ones on the dusky quiet streets were silent.

Now they’re asking

The End

By Peter Stringer

The only One

The Drag Kings and Queens were having a laugh as the space yacht blasted through a solar system. On their way to a party moon. They were drinking the usual synthetics and laughing about everything future people find funny. The future was wealthy, wealthy in humour, wealthy in commodities, wealthy in freedom.

A secret party moon. You had to crack a cyber conundrum, about the usual space contradictions, in order to find the moon. Space party animals were this space conundrum.

As the space yacht careened around a green gaseous planet a small gaseous moon appeared in front of them. The yacht disappeared into the pearlescent sphere. Down and down they shook, laughing with every tremor. They reached a glittering golden force field and disappeared behind it. Gigantic twisting burgundy rock peaks were navigated; a slight melting on the rock surface of lilac coloured substances reacting to the new oxygen of the space party. A black pyramid surrounded by space yachts.

The space party animals stumbled over the burgundy rubble ground, laughing. How to get in. Another conundrum. The party animals adjusted something on their anti gravity belts and floated up towards the pinnacle. Nothing. No entrance. Some more party space people rose to meet the strangers already at the top. They all hugged and complemented each others distinct outfits. Alien drag kings and queens had a particular style all of their own. The strangers laughed and giggled, drank more of the impossible to over do synthetics. Forgetting about the pyramid. In fact the pyramid had gone and the party animals were somewhere entirely different. Dark Xenomorphs authentically insectoidally hissed at them from shimmering black maze walls. The space party had a theme.

Yellow acid fruity substances were being drank from crystal helmets. Fake holographic blood exploded from the chests of huge, ancient ideas, of future soldiers. The music a tuned version of some, ancient idea, of future technology sounds. Xenomorphs served food and drink and other future party things. The party animals all had alarms set to remind them to sleep at some point; because future parties can go on for quite some time if you let them. In fact there were rumours of ancient lost party moons that still sparkled with alien party animals.

There’s always one. The One was an artist of sorts, an artist of grey. The One sat slumped next to a burgundy rock, grumbling. Their outfit was violently grey, extremely plain, compared to the saturated glitter and hues of the future, FUCK YOU grey.

The One drank H2O from a grey average tube. This H2O had the party synthetics added to it. The liquid looked grey in its grey tube... compared to the sweet sour fruity extrovert futuristic flavours of everyone else’s colourful drinking tubes.

Grumbling about the psychedelic future that everyone else embraces.

The One made their whole life grey, all except their minds eye. They had asked for the brain augmentations to be adapted, muted reality the One had wanted. But the A.I. In charge of such things would not be convinced, massively inefficient was the answer.

The One’s friends were the small grey aliens.

Grey moods, grey food, grey ideas. Grey grey tinted spectacles.

The One dreamed of a universe of sparkling greys. The One had grown up surrounded by saturated fun, limitless leisure time and multi-coloured speckled alien feathers. They had dreamed of a small grey home inside a grey asteroid field: They had an iridescent crystal tower pod. The One had tried as a child to paint their rainbowed pod bed grey. In fact as a child the One, naughtily, painted all kinds of things grey. Family heirlooms had to have their glittering colours restored. Ruby shoes, their reds rejuvenated. Grey flowers were left grey.

The One grumbled that the rocky core of this party moon had too much colour. The One adjusted their grey anti gravity belt and floated to the pinnacle of the party pyramid. “black, hmm not bad"

A pet Amooumboo, normally the most saturated of pets, was found in grey... the happiest day of the young One’s young life.

The One liked robots, even the flamboyant one’s. Robots had grey personalities.

The Grey's have an absurdly wicked sense of humour... and are always only grey. They also had a particular eye for human history, repackaging their culture for the universe... They also threw the best moon parties and made sure the One always joined in. Making a little grey VIP area, with bottles of expensive grey alien NON-fizzy. Only the Greys were allowed. Only the greys plus One.

The End

By Peter Stringer

Doomed Daze

Time for your second morning massage and we’ll shave your legs at the same time. All you have to do is lie there. Then twenty minutes of exercise, all timed for you. I’ve saved some relevant to your interests articles from the web on the PodPad in the pad room.. and no caffeine today madam. The inhibitor welded into the mans head started bleeping manically. “Sorry about that madam.” “Your weekly health tests are due as well, do you want to put them off for another day? Yes of course madam.” “And your children are waiting for the day to start with you.”

The end

By Peter Stringer

[c4tbus]

🌌🌖✨Galaxy Brownies ✨🌘🌌 Okay these came out amazing, they were also fairly easy. But yay! I left some plain for those who don’t wanna go into a sugar coma.

[frankwhitelemon]

film//0260401504 - JACK -  “attack the track” HARLOW