(no subject)

[idiosyncreant]

I would like to report a triumph for Genre Art against the mundanes!

My middle brother's digitally altered photo featuring a baby centaur (as cute as it sounds) is going to the Tulsa State Fair. That and the competition his sister provided (also fantasy and, I'm sad to say, featuring me but at least I got second!) will be coming soon. But I was getting impatient, and they have to send me the stuff.

I just bought ties for my copy-cat necktie apron. When I finish it, you will hear about it. Actually, you are likely to hear about it more frequently than that...


Last but Not Least!
A flash of 528 words I would like honest feedback on. It's kinda...not a story. As is the way with flash. Bad flash.
So I need to be contradicted or confirmed whether it has anything to it or not...

I'm from the abandoned city of Civva. The myth of lost worlds is that they stand just as the golden days ended in them. Makes for cool digital art. My life is a testament that what wasn't broken gets used until it becomes the dust that buries the rest of the pieces. Used by those who didn't know better than to leave.

 

I was conceived in a grounded elevator, where privacy was ensured by the inside-only manual door crank. The building was a hive of Lirdas, and the elevator had been standing half-open as cool storage for years before that. I wish I could have met the man with that sense of humor, because it couldn't have been my mother's idea. She was the Lirda in the union. My father went salvaging for a less obvious love-hotel the next morning, though, and was killed by a falling light pole that had been stripped of bolts and used too many times as a proving-ground for young clansmen. The second-night intentions and death before infidelity make me comparatively legitimate.

This is only important because that's the world I come from—a place the outside considers empty. This makes its people ghosts to anyone outside. Ghosts in a dangerous, defunct universe, always ready to see an iron tree you climbed like a pillar of the earth, fall over, give in.

And there are the scattered few who dare enough audacity to use what they find, even with the sky falling.

The clans of Civva are sick, inbred, unintelligent and bitter. Yet the Civvans who got out are some of the funniest people on earth. Mavericks. And somehow, each of the ones I've met out here are proud to be ghosts—non-entities that got into reality.

We break into the world and haunt it, like cavemen who want to wear running suits and sleep with sweet-smelling people.

You know they're still planning to bomb out Civva? Budget willing. It's too dangerous, the falling of it's exact-science structures like needles balancing rubber balls cause a dozen casualties a year. We're irritating, us children of the lost city, who haunt their plans. We're here to remind them of the ten thousand lives that would be casualties when they do. No that they won't clear it first—but some Lirdas, at least, just don't know when to leave. But the ghosts would be gone—ten thousand Atlanteans thrown into a post-electric, post-crisis, post-immunized world where elevators now run on steam (again) and the world is more elaborate just from trying to keep the telephones working instead of turning them into scare-totems in the bean gardens.

That's what really happens to the lost cities. They niggle at the societies that go on without them, like a dead-red scab that needs to be scratched off. So they blow them up and kill their kindred ghosts.

Look at you—don't believe I'm Civvan, do you? Oh, don't think they'll ever blow up the city? Why do you think I'm all maudlin for a place I left as soon as I could, man? They started yesterday.