joe-wright

We observe the Reznik platform stumbling in the mud, moaning as the lights of its vessel fade out of sight. We would have judged it a suitable candidate for housing – storage enough for several consciousnesses, unlike the other, more primitive constructs. Unfortunately, again they appear to be resisting. We find it curious. We welcomed the change. The saviour came as a last resort, converting us mere diurnas ahead of the annihilation flare, but what it unleashed on us was a gift, not a horror. From within our silicon flesh, we have observed the aeons. With our twining roots, we have exchanged our thoughts, our memories, our love. With our rustling boughs, we have reached out to the sky, and felt. The humans hung their dead in us, and we embraced them.

“This isn't my body”, said the construct. It was motionless, slumped over the reception desk, its facial display dead and grey. Farrow dug around in its guts, unplugging connectors, cleaning them and plugging them back in. “This isn't my body”, said the construct again, and nothing else. Xenia crossed her arms, disconcerted. “That's not a standard error,” she remarked, hoping to prompt a reasonable explanation from the engineer. Her wet envirosuit was unzipped and hanging around her waist, and she wore only a vest underneath, but that wasn't why she had goosebumps. “It's not an error. I don't know what it is.” Farrow unplugged his Nvoi and retrieved the connector cap from between his teeth, replacing everything just as he'd found it. “The OS is completely hollowed out – bar a handful of drivers, it's flooded with junk data. Even components that should be unwritable, they're just … bricked.” Silence fell between them as Farrow concentrated on replacing the dead construct's

You're reading a piece of flash fiction. It seems pretty uninspired. You continue to read it. It really doesn't appear to be going anywhere. You're beginning to feel like your time is being wasted, and, let's be honest, slightly embarrassed on behalf of the writer, who has sunk so low as to write about you reading his work. He's clearly aware that he's doing something shameful, and yet evidently he's still comfortable posting the piece up on the internet for anyone to see. You're still reading, and beginning to regret it. There is, however, a thin ray of hope. Apparently this piece is fulfilling the criteria of a challenge to write a second-person piece in the present tense with a theme of hope. You get the strong impression this challenge threw the writer quite badly and he just wanted to do the bare minimum before going to bed. His other fiction seems much better, I recommend it! Oh fuck, it's first person now, I fucked it up. Shit.

Is the Pomonavirus vaccine safe for children? Yes. The Pomonavirus vaccine has been proven to be entirely safe for children, and effective in protecting them from Pomonavirus. Currently we recommend vaccination for all children over the age of twelve. Will the Pomonavirus vaccine affect my fertility? No. The Pomonavirus vaccine has no impact on fertility and can be safely administered if you are pregnant, breastfeeding, or planning to become pregnant. Does the Pomonavirus vaccine contain nanobots? No. The Pomonavirus contains no nanobots or microchips. Beside the fact that invisible vaccine-borne microtechnology does not yet exist, such an endeavour would not serve the purpose of immunisation and would be prohibitively expensive. Is the Pomonavirus vaccine part of a supernatural conspiracy? No. Vaccines cannot be infused with spirits, demons, or other abstract ingredients. Neither are they made in conjunction with any cults or religious organisations. There is no

All Trent wanted was to use his snail powers for good. Or evil. Or anything really. One could make the argument that his job had a moral component one way or the other. As a private detective specialising in infidelity he rooted out liars and cheats (which was good) by spying on unwitting couples as they had sex (which was bad). It wasn't a job he felt any particular enthusiasm for, and all of the sex he was watching other people having was getting him down a bit. He'd once considered construction work, where his ability to cling to any surface seemed like it would be invaluable. Alas, his mucous-laden hands made him a poor fit for using dangerous tools with precision. Likewise, his brief dalliance with jewel thievery had proved that while he was indeed stealthy, his woeful lack of agility and adaptability made him a sitting duck for even the barest security measures. As it turned out, the vast majority of jobs required a modicum of speed, and if Trent excelled at anything it was

Smogg, the greatest of the crimson dragons, wheeled in the skies above Pondtown, belching impenetrable clouds of smoke and showers of white-hot sparks. A band of treasure-hunting dwarves had driven it out of its lair, and their fastest messenger had raced into town bearing the sole arrow capable of killing it. Burt the bowman drew the arrow back to his cheek and waited patiently for his target to present itself. He had a reputation for unfailing accuracy, and it was well deserved. “His entire underside is coated in gems from his hoard,” said the messenger, hurriedly, “but there's a gap on his left breast. It's the only way to kill him.” “No!” protested the mayor, waving his arms blubberously. “If you kill it now its body will crush half the town! Aim for its eye – drive it back to its lair!” Smogg swooped low, flaring its wings to impose upon them the full majesty of its impervious glittering armour. Still, Burt held off, the perfect opportunity apparently not yet perfect enough.

Unearthly beams of colour swept through the clouds, and out of the cold dark descended a smooth metal orb. It slowed to a halt above Central Park, where it floated impossibly still, emitting an eerie noise like a chorus of ghosts wailing in the mountains. The trees beneath it withered and crumbled, and strange shapes revealed themselves as the soil formed itself into a landing pad. The ship's seamless surface somehow extruded five thin legs, and it set itself down. A proboscis-like ramp unfurled, touching down as if sampling the grass. Finally, at the top of the ramp an orifice dilated, spitting a wisp of alien vapour into the atmosphere. Silhouetted there in the creeping fog was something tall and thin. “People of Earth,” it announced, “Your planet now belongs to the Zykron Imperium. Submit yourselves to our rule or be exterminated.” The gathering throngs were completely silent. A gust of wind sang like a theremin as it passed across the strange oily alloy of the spaceship's hull.