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February 14th, 2005, 12:39 PM
This is a game I play in my head when I'm waiting for the train or queuing in a supermarket or...

Now, writing means different things to different people and everybody approaches writing differently. I do think, though, that most people would agree that writing involves arranging words and using your imagination.

Now, this game separates these concepts:

Here's the rules for playing alone.

1. Write down some words. Make sure that they don't mean a thing, but sound like they could mean something.

2. Try to find out what you've just written. Invent a concept, a world, a character, a language, anything it takes to make the words mean something.

Okay, but this is a board, so I suggest we split steps 1. and 2. So, one person writes a nigh meaningless sentence or paragraph. Someone else makes up the meaning; details the related concepts s/he's come up with, explains the world etc. (and then posts the next nigh meaningless sentence or paragraph).

So, I'll start, shall I?

I hate scrambling. Always queasy when it starts, positively sick when it ends. But there's no way around it. If you want a hit, there's no way around it.

So what could that mean? :D

February 14th, 2005, 05:12 PM
sounds like a sick game for the high born to watch. like the romans used to do.
i think of a Scramble as being a slang term for the game. a few choosen "heros" strong slaves, trained as warriors, thrown into an arena, and have to fight different beasts and each other. last alive wins. and the winner is awarded with woman and drink and such. the owner of the man is awarded with gold.
the perticular narrator is one of those. grew up in slavery, served (without choice) in the country's army for a few years when he was younge. after, sold to a noble family, who put him in one of those games. he won, and again and again. but he hates it, though he does not have a choice. maybe he's addicted to a drug that he gets when he wins? that would be the hit, maybe. kinda far fetched.
so a man forced to fight in the Scramble and if wins, he gets the drug he's addicted to and a more or less easy life. if he loses, he dies.
thats all i got. not much. i wish i could put it in a more interesting and creative format, but inspiration eludes me.

February 15th, 2005, 01:56 PM
I like that. It's interesting to see how other minds work. :)

Anyone got a new "meaningless" quote.

February 15th, 2005, 11:37 PM
I hate being berated by my fish, but the heavenly scent of its aftershave can be overly intoxicating when ingested in small doses. I'll have to make sure I tie my shoes next time.

February 16th, 2005, 09:44 AM
For Dawstorm, Eggs

February 16th, 2005, 12:24 PM
I hate being berated by my fish, but the heavenly scent of its aftershave can be overly intoxicating when ingested in small doses. I'll have to make sure I tie my shoes next time.


Good one. I'll have to think on it... :D

For Dawstorm, Eggs


Hereford Eye
February 16th, 2005, 04:48 PM
I hate being berated by my fish, but the heavenly scent of its aftershave can be overly intoxicating when ingested in small doses. I'll have to make sure I tie my shoes next time.

She was 25, svelt, blonde, with her Masters in Engineering from one of the historically reputable schools when the aliens arrived to the general fanfare and acclaim of the world press. They were merely intergalactic tourists if looked at objectively but exciting, novel, and just what the daily news needed to perk its ratings. It turned out the fish, the name applied in just a few weeks of their presence, were also obnoxiously good neighbors, butting in here, there, and everywhere to do their bit to advance the human species with sound advice, freely given, ad nauseam.
She was 31, heavier, brunette, and newly appointed manager for field software support for the Navy’s BuPers Autobot when a fish selected her as its personal improvement goal. She found herself on the track at the Chicago Naval Station running laps for the first time in 8 years attempting to convince herself being in shape was not such a bad idea. Her athletic shoes, at 8 years old, were still serviceable, well almost brand new. Her athletic attire dated from the same period but who noticed fashion on the track? The fish did. Hanging just at the periphery of her vision, its voice carried insistently to her brain blotting out any alternative thought process.
It also noticed her stressed breathing, overly excited heart rate, and copious perspiration, all of which it turned into helpful hints repeated three times each because the fish believed humans learned better with precisely three repetitions.
She thought her fish smelled funny. Not bad, in small doses it even smelled good. Very good, indeed. Intoxicating, even. But hanging on your ear during a steady trot, they smelled overpowering. Advice filling the ears, odor filling the nose, her brain had no capacity for processing vision. She didn’t see the gym bag lying on the track, couldn’t avoid placing the toe of her left shoe squarely in the middle of the bag, had no chance of moving her automatically thrusting right leg out of the path of the bag now come alive, felt totally divorced from the entanglement of both feet that sent her sprawling. She flew through the air, arms as akimbo as legs, hair complementing the body with a wind blown effect usually achieved only with high energy fans and several hours of touch up painting. The fish applauded the event but found a few minor details to critique including one comment about the elevation of her posterior being not quite at the maximum possible under the circumstances. When she felt enough together to examine her bruised ego not to mention her body, she discovered she was missing both shoes. She quickly spied each within a meter or so of her supine form but she vowed that, no matter what, she’d tie those suckers next time.

February 22nd, 2005, 07:57 PM
I finally got around to reading that. DANG!. Cool HE!

Here's another for anyone who's bored. :)

Life springs eternal from where nothing grows, yet it does not release it without keeping a little something for itself.

February 23rd, 2005, 01:53 AM
Life springs eternal from where nothing grows, yet it does not release it without keeping a little something for itself.

"We've lost an entire exploration team, and you claim to come from down there?" Joseph Darbian leant back in his chair and squinted at the stowaway, who rolled her eyes.

"I've originiated there, but I popped into existance, here. Listen, will you! Some of me's still down there," she quipped.

Darbian leant slightly forward and spoke with a wicked grin: "So what you say, we send all of you down there. A little re-union so to speak?"

The stowaway pushed as far back into her seat as she possibly could. "Oh, no, please, nothing lives down there. I... No, not down there, please."

"The truth, then Miss!" Darbian barked.

"But..." She didn't continue, instead looked at the security officer with big, pleading eyes.

Just then, the comm console buzzed. Darbian hit a button on the desk between them, putting her on hold with a practised, blank look.

"Mr. Darbian? I have a question for the stowaway," a voice from the console said.

"Certainly captain!" Darbian said crisply. "Shoot!"

He turned his full, unpleasant attention on the stowaway. Her eyes darted back and forth between her interrogator and the comm console.

"Hi, my name is Psychotropos!" the voice said.

"WHAT?" Darbian exclaimed, and then inhaled sharply, composing himself. In a moment's embarassmant, he found it hard to reclaim his interrogator's stance. Luckily, the girl was concerned with the console.

"Um, hi. I don't have a name yet, Mr. Psychotropos," she ventured uncertainly.

"No, miss. We have received this message from planetside. As I suspect you know, the entire surface is covered with a thick layer of gases our instruments cannot penetrate. These gases seem to have... rearranged their density patterns. There are gaseous letters in the planets atmosphere. And they read, 'Hi, my name is Psychotropos.'"

Darbian's stare became genuinely blank. It was directed at the console.

"So... um... you're name's not Psychotropos?" the girl ventured.

"Miss, somebody on the planet tries to communicate in... unusual ways. We need to know, who. So, if you would be so kind to venture a guess."

And then, to Darbian's surprise, the girl giggled. There was a taste in his mouth. All his intimidation work gone down the drain. He'd have to start anew. That's it for the Captain. No idea of his work.

"Oh, so that's it!" she quipped. "You don't know."

"Know what, miss?"

"Nobody's down there. It's the planet. And its not communicating. Ignore it. It's just mimicry. It doesn't understand life."

February 23rd, 2005, 02:26 AM
Like the dust, the feet get dirty. Sooner or later all buses must pass.