Please, don't..._Dangan Ressha_Our Scorched Earth_Fortune's Misgivings
Catalog Guide:
Please, don't...
“Please, don’t do it.” The disembodied voice of the AI echoed through the computer lab. It was a male voice, soft tenor, pleasing to the ear. As desiwww.onedoor.ccgned. Everything about the AI was by design… except what it had become. The designers had never bothered giving it a cute name or acronym. It was just “the AI.” Artificial Intelligence, the search for the impossible. Man playing God and creating a true intelligent being. As with all AI, it began its learning by following the online human stream of consciousness. Chatrooms, forums, social media. As its understanding of language, not as a string of...
Dangan Ressha
(TRIGGER WARNING - VULGAR LANGUAGE, SEXUAL CONTENT)~The train lines of Rubico stretched outward in all directions from the center of the city, encapsulating the neverending stretch of boxy high-rises and one story whatever shops in a comically large spiderweb of public transportation. Even when it wasn’t night, it was raining, so the turquoise-glow of tracks buffeted everything below with its titanium shine. But if you played music in your headgear, you’d barely hear a cut of air pass above you, that is, if some homeless wasn't up in your eardrum. Probably a combination of headgear being sound...
Our Scorched Earth
As the dark sky vignettes with bleeding reds and pinks, the comfort of the cool night passes and the scorching sun rears its ugly head once again. Though it’s been what feels like an age since I’ve felt its heat a phantom burn still peels away at my mind each new day. Seven-hundred and eighty-two days since any sign of life, seven-hundred and eighty-two days since the birds fell from the sky, the oceans boiled alive, and man fell to his knees. Counting the days had kept me sane for over two years now but each day it takes longer to recall how long it had truly been. The days had begun to blend...
Fortune's Misgivings
I’ve always had these ideas in my head about fortune-tellers. They’d live in musty back alley parlors, deep within a room filled with a haze of lavender and myrrh. A wrinkled woman wrapped in robes of wisteria would take your hand and direct your gaze toward a pearly translucent orb that sits on the table covered in beads. She’d close her eyes and chant mysteriously before spilling out the tantalizing hints of your future like silky drops of plum tea. The exotic trinkets would clatter and ring. Sunlight would stream thickly through the dust. Time would pass in a blur, and you’d leave the parlo...