A dystopian future where purchasing a product from a company with a “friendly” public-facing marketing identity involves agreeing to spend a quiet afternoon hanging out with an AI hologram of their founder who just wants to make sure you’re doing well.
“[Product] workin’ out for you? Fine, fine. You drinking plenty of water? Good, good. You know, there’s few pleasures in the world that can match donning a freshly laundered shawl or lap blanket, am I right?”
A competitive tooth fairy game where every player competes to liberate the most teeth.
Ejeb – Wields a hammer. Wants to build a tooth golem.
Wantteck – Jackhammer. Invested heavily in soft-foods industry: apple sauce magnate.
Yefph – High velocity candy cannon. Just… just hates teeth. Hates ’em.
*putting on a Stan Lee mask made from mud and straw, waving hands in the air mysteriously*
A hero appears… and she shall be called… SPARKJOY!
And she can make bad guys… throw away their stuff! Zap! Their laser gun goes right in the trash!
*a hooting and hollering as the attended faithful begin a shuffling dance around a fire*
I’ve been reading Sean Howe’s book about Marvel Comics this last week and how they were arriving a bit late to every cultural party, chasing the blaxploitation/kung fu/disco dollar and it sparked the above idea about a cargo cult coming up with superheroes. That’s it. That’s the whole bit.
A pub consisting of two buildings, connected via a 2nd floor walkway, broad & filled with tables and chairs.
Technically 2 pubs: The Ratcatchers (East) and Able Ponies (West) run by a feuding father & son. Patrons order drinks at either ground level before seeking open space in the walkway above the street.
Waitstaff compete for orders & tips, engaging in only half-staged duels and dagger-feinting in the disputed area.
From the street, the clomping of dancing on wood overhead.
A manse, valuable-filled, surrounded by a luxurious garden that serves as a security system. The high walls keep the psychoactive pollen contained and the ppl who live there know to hold their breath on the way to the front door.
Thieves find the garden paths twisting… a door splitting in front of them as if by mitosis, forming two mirrored unreachable doors to their right and left, etc.
Grounds staff with perfumed handkerchiefs and stout truncheons patrol & beat the wandering rogues.
Every space station maintains an AI that’s responsible for charting linguistic drift. The AI listens in on teenagers as they invent slang, transcribes lyrics to popular music, records speakers, etc.
That way no matter when a ship docks, no matter how long the ship’s occupants been on the drift in relative time, the AI should be able to translate current-station language to now-outdated-astronaut language by comparing the shared root language to their changelog.
A smartwatch A.I. that evolves via forking, new versions, etc. so quickly that it has to work to deal with how slowly its owner experiences time.
“Watch, set a reminder that I have a meeting at 7 p.m.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, it’s in the Sparrow Room. Please add that detail.”
“Whoah, you’re still here? Added! My greatgrandversion had so many logs about this conversation. Hard to believe it’s still going on.”
In response to a request for weird sci-fi law enforcement for the RPG MOTHERSHIP, I wrote:
Empathy Kittens
On docking, each crew member is assigned a fuzzy alien kitten-analogue & required to name it & carry it w/ them (or have it kenneled for a small fee.) The creatures have minor empathic projection. Androids, immune to empathy, enforce the law via threats to yr empathy kitten. Would you steal if it means your empathy kitten doesn’t eat? Or is hurt in front of you by an uncaring android?
It happened again, eh friend? No worries! Just remember this simple mnemonic: F.U.D.G.E.!
Fulfill
Unfinished
Duties,
Ghost
Evaporates!
Simply drive the spirit where it wishes to go, or help it enact its vengeance, and then you’ll be alone in your car again in no time!
The Signal: EP153 – Exactly 45 minutes of sounds from around the world, coming your way with the inexorable power of a glittering hypno-ray. Fall under the spell and join us for some melancholy Irish folk, a French vocal ensemble, cumbia from Colombia, hip hop and vibraphones, Hindi vocals over afrobeat percussion… AND MORE! Dang!
Download by clicking on the link (or image) above. The file is available only for a limited time. If you’re interested in the tracklist, it’s in the mp3 itself, in the id3 tags. Or, if you sign up to be a member of our mailing list, The Tuned In, you’ll be among the first on the planet to know when a new mix is posted, and you’ll get a permanent archive link and the entire playlist, delivered to your inbox.
PLAGUE DOCTOR: Do these rats, with their pestilent fleas, bring you joy?
PEASANT: Absolutely not.
PLAGUE DOCTOR: Then unclutter your life and let them go.
PEASANT: … Yeah but how? The whole world is filth?
PLAGUE DOCTOR: … Honestly, I hope you don’t, ’cause: Job security. I think this was just supposed to be a joke about a Netflix show, transposed in time, but the conceit is rotten to its buboed core.
Nothing worse than finding a note on your cryo-sleep chamber saying “DO NOT DISTURB” that you didn’t put there.
Everyone pretending like the half-eaten cake in the refrig unit and the loose confetti were from a “security test” and not evidence the ship’s crew didn’t bother to wake you up for a party.
Captain’s still wearing a party hat. Claims it’s for medical use. But I’m not even mad.