World of 1000 Words

[worldof1000words]

The Saga of Baby Master Chief

Baby Master Chief was born in Space Year 2511, still years before the outbreak of the Covenant’s evil interstellar holy blood war. He was born to John and Mary Chief, humble farmers just scraping by on a desert moon in the Outer Colonies. They hadn’t intended to have a child, but as soon as BMC was born, they knew he was special.

Baby Master Chief slid into his father’s hands on a wave of amniotic fluid. As her final birthing roar dissipated into the desert winds, Mary and her husband fell silent, in awe of their newborn child. Baby Master Chief, of course, did not make a sound. He simply looked around, taking in the world for the first time, pinkish fluid still dripping from his dark green carbon fiber armor.

John was the first to speak. “Oh right, I have to cut the umbilic--” BANG! The umbilical cord ripped in two, soaking John with leftover baby juice. Mary couldn’t help but stifle a giggle as Baby Master Chief holstered his Standard-Issue UNSC Pistol. At first John couldn’t believe it - but then he smiled. “Oh, Baby Master Chief!”

BMC did not reply. John was also the third to speak. “Well, I suppose I’ll take him for a bath.” But before he could move two steps, the hologram lens on BMC’s exoskeleton sprung to life, forming the visage of a kindly old grandmother made of tumbling blue computer code. The holo-granny looked disapprovingly at John’s handling of BMC.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. I am Cornana; I am programmed to raise this Master Chief from birth. He will stay here with you until he is ready to be a warrior. And he does NOT do well underwater. Don’t worry, his suit will clean itself off.” Just then, water jets sprayed out of BMC’s armor, dousing John in hot cleansing soaps. At first, John couldn’t believe how much pain the chemicals were causing - but then he smiled. “Ohhh, Baby Master Chief!”

Cornana’s three-dimensional avatar adjusted her thick tri-focal lenses. “Hmm… I had better activate the Military-Grade Waste Guard around his pelvic shield.” She fuzzed out for a moment, evidently accessing the armor’s internal code. A compartment on his left hip popped open, ejecting a gunmetal grey diaper that magnetically latched itself around BMC’s waist.

Baby Master Chief’s inscrutable facemask looked up at John and gave him a nigh-imperceptible nod before hopping out of his arms. He landed in a crouch and transitioned to hands and knees with a swift, instinctual grace. As he crawled out of the barn and into the sunlight of his new home, Cornana’s matronly voice echoed between the canyon walls.

“You won’t like it, but lesson one is learning to communicate - that means talking, something I can already tell you won’t be much good at…”

~

The next few years brought many changes to the quaint Chief homestead. “Chief” among them being the irrigation ditches and wells that Baby Master Chief dug with his bare hands. Over time, he earned the mantles of Child Master Chief, Tween Master Chief, and Adolescent Master Chief. John and Mary never got to see him become Master Chief proper - that was the Marine Corps’ job.

“Adolescent Master Chief… Are you sure about this? We’ll miss you so.” Tears trickled from Mary’s ducts, floating away in zero gravity like hot cesium balloons on the planet Typhion. Other Masters and their families bustled around the in space station gymnasium where the goodbye ceremony took place. “I hope I can handle the aqualaser without you, son.” John was smiling, but there was a glisten in his eye. AMC laid a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. By now AMC towered a full foot and a half above his parents, so it was no discomfort. He still did not speak - he simply drew his parents close and somberly lowered his behelmeted head. Cornana projected herself floating nearby, weeping openly. It was almost comical. Nobody laughed.

Master Chief was offered a job in the command central HQ after a month. He refused, wanting to be prepared and on the ground should anything escalate in the current conflict. And it’s a damn good thing he did - because the Covenant War broke out 13 weeks later.

And the rest, dear readers, is Halostory.

[worldof1000words]

How to Win a Fight the Easy Way

Aw, shucks - he took it the wrong way. But it was just a joke! Not again...

You know what comes next, and it isn't going to be pretty. What're you gonna do - turn the other cheek? NO! That time is over. I bring you a better way - it is called the LIMP method. Laugh, Intimidate, Move, Punch - these few steps will get you out of any potentially painful situation.

I don't have time to take a class right now - I'm about to get my feathers dusted!

Ha ha ha, do not worry, child. It's simple!

Hurry!!

Laugh: when the fight is in its embryonic form, perhaps as an accidental elbow nudge, or an offhanded comment that could be read as racially insensitive, there's still time to defuse the situation. Laugh about it! Hey, another round, on me! There's no need to fight, it's all just one big joke.

OK, but, he's not laughing. Even his fists are frowning. Uh oh, he's taken more serious offense than I thought! 

When that fails, move on to I - Intimidate. Even if you lack the size or strength necessary to be traditionally frightening, you can use your massive brainpower to convince the other guy that in fact, he is the puny nerd with the dumb glasses.

"Hey! If my glasses are so dumb, then that chain around your neck is the village idiot, you beef-brained hunk of jerk chicken." Not bad. That should-- Hmm, he doesn't look scared... In fact, he looks--

###Hi, this is Riley, the author of this guide. I just wanted to pop in here and say thanks a lot for reading, and I hope it's as effective for you as it has been for me. I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll just say that this next section is the most crucial part of the entire method. If things go poorly here, the fight is over. Fortunately, you're walking with a LIMP - and the conscientious combatant is ready for anything! Anyways, again, thanks so much for reading, and, oh - a quick shout-out to my Mom and Dad, because without them I wouldn't be anywhere. I'll be back to talk some more with you later.###

M stands for Move, as in move out of the way of the 16-ton fist coming straight for your head. If you don't hit a table, slip on a banana peel, or knock over an inattentive waitress, you should be able to avoid it - because you're ready.

Phew, that was close! What now??

PUNCH!!! Your attacker will have just taken a swing at you and missed - he'll be off balance for what could be as short as a fraction of a second. So stay focused, ball your fist, and aim for the chin. Put all your weight into it - this is your last shot.

Here goes nothing-- "Sorry!"

Huzzah! You're LIMPing along nicely!

So uh, what letter do you do when the guy gets up?

Wait, what? Didn't I tell you to run away?

NO, YOU DIDN'T TELL ME TO RUN. "O-okay buddy, this is all just a big misunderstanding..."

Maybe it should be LIMPER. The LIMPER Method - yeah. Laugh, Intimidate, Move, Punch, Exit Running. Ooh, that's good!

CAN'T RUN. BOXING ME IN. WHAT DO. WHAT DOOOOOOO--

GO LIMP!

###Hey everybody, it's Riley again, just wanted to poke my head back into your reading nook to let you know again that I really, truly appreciate you taking the time out to read this guide. I know people are busy these days. But you have to put safety first. It's all about priorities. As you read in the example above, this is a worst case scenario. But fear not - with the new and improved LIMPER Method, we'll be long gone before that brute ever gets to his feet!

I also want to take a moment to dedicate this version of the method to Brian, who was our test subject for the guide. We wanted to base it off real experiences but, tragically, after that conversation took place, several members of a Croatian crime syndicate entered the bar and, seeing their buddy with a bit of a bruise forming on his chin, started laughing and making fun. So the punchee points at Brian and, well... I hear it was like the air was sucked out of the room. And before you'd know it, the Croats throw him in the back of their van, drive him down to some kind of warehouse down by the docks, chain him up for months and brutally torture him until his body just can't take it anymore, then fill his pockets with pennies and sink him in the river.

Anyhoo, this version of the method is dedicated to his wife, Abigail, and his seven beautiful children; Portnoy, Sebastion, McCulloch, Nails, Fudgey, Aidan, and G'lengi. Brian is also survived by thirteen grandchildren: Lexus, Motorola, Justin Bieber 2, Cholmondeley, High Fashion Model, Son of G'lengi, Mrs. McGillicutty, Brangelina Polie, His Majesty the Brian, Brain Jr., Wait Can I Change That, What Do You Mean Quadruplets, and What Do You Mean Why Am I Writing This All Down on the Birth Certificates.

If you're at all moved by Brian's story, please donate to the charity we've set up. We've established a hnk-- I'm sorry I'm getting a little choked up as I'm typing this - we've established a charity for Brian's next of kin, whom our analysts have predicted will accrue exorbitant fees for name changes, expanded official ID cards for those choosing to keep their improbably long names, and of course ol' Brian's gambling debts.

And again, from the deepest, furthest, most remote, iciest, coldest, most frigid and empty, barren places of my heart, thank you for halting the Flash-like speed-run of modern life for one nanosecond to read my little guide that cost a man his life. You're my hero. Brian was my friend. But you're my hero.###

~* In Memoriam ~ Brian Carlyle ~ 1964 - 2013 *~

[worldof1000words]

The Time of the Dinosaurs

It was the time of the dinosaurs, and it was good. The sun beat hot upon the land. The air was thick with primordial life. Palm trees gorged themselves on oxygen, growing massive ripe fruits that smashed to pieces when they hit the ground. Terrible lizards stomped between valleys, feeding on each other and the mammals who were not quick enough to hide. I lived in the land of scrub, in the foothills of a mountain that scraped the sky, and I was always quick enough.

It was the sweet scent of overripe melons turning mushy in the sticky heat that first brought me out of my burrow. There’s something in that scent… It can draw me from miles. There’s nothing else like it. Except, occasionally, the spoiling flesh of my others, before the scavengers have picked clean their bones. I have traveled miles from my burrow, following the smell of ripeness, only to find death, and more often than not fight to avoid my own.

Mosquitoes buzzed around my snout as I scurried through the underbrush, following the scent trail of what seemed like it must have been a fruit bigger than me! When the odor was so overpowering that I felt it was squeezing me from all sides, I tore through a curtain of vines, and it was then that I saw it. It wasn’t the size of me, not quite, though I’d wished it was. Maybe the size of my head, which was nevertheless uncommonly large. Its tough, green and red hide was split open, revealing a treasure trove of wet, yellow flesh within. My mouth began to water…

A branch snapped on the other side of the tree. I flattened myself against the ground, ears twitching, muscles tensed against the possibility that something bigger may come for my prize. I relaxed when I saw a stout brown shape hop over the tree’s encroaching root. It was merely a young boar, wandering foolishly and sticking its tusks into everything it finds. I had seen her kind around the jungle - dangerous in groups, and moreso as they get older and pack layers of tough, gristly flesh onto their squat frames.

The youngster made a beeline for the fruit, black flies rising up in an angry cloud as the beast’s clumsy hooves knocked it around. It hadn’t noticed me yet. I waited until its back was turned before I made my move - leaping onto the boar’s back, I dug in - slashing and ripping and tearing. Her shrieks pierced the afternoon as warm blood spilled across the jungle floor.

I curled up and slept under an overhanging fern after devouring my fill of the sweet fruit. In my dreams I saw myself, from outside, standing on a raft of sticks and floating on an endless ocean. As I watched from my position floating over the waves, something emerged from the deep. It was a blur at first - a shift in color, a rippling motion perpendicular to surface eddies. But I had no way to scream - no way to tell myself of the giant mouth, surging up from below to swallow me whole. And in the blinking of an eye, the beast’s towering jaws snapped shut, excess ocean seeping out the sides. The raft bearing me was gone and I was left alone, trapped between a foreign sea and the darkening sky.