You’re Not Your

Maykirk’s attention drifts past the tattoos unraveling from Your gently curled fingers and palm to Your neck and breasts. He looks into Your eyes, but doesn’t see his death—not certain anyway. He knows Your unseen hand carries a bolter.

The synthetic bedsheets actually smell like cotton; the pillows fluff like down. Maykirk hadn’t expected such niceties on this floater, but guesses any city this large must have an array of services. He’s glad he spring for the room.

“How much time do you need?” Maykirk asks.


Maykirk laughs. “How much time do you need me to wait before I report my cred stolen so that I can get out of this alive? Or are You still pretending this isn’t a Romp and Rob?”

“I am,” You say. “Or I haven’t decided. Last night was pretty good.”

“I guess I should thank you for that?” Maykirk pulls himself up in the bed. You slides the bolter under the sheets and cranes her neck.

Ok. That’s taking too long to get off the ground this morning, and I’ve discovered something about writing You that I hadn’t realized before: you can’t do it in second person unless you’re in that person’s POV. That seems obvious now, but until I tried it—for wahtever reason I tried it—it hadn’t occured to me. It looks like I’ll need to get a name for my You character if I’m ever going to write outside her POV. Or not write outside her POV.

247 words on day 771

Your Impatience; Your Life.

A miniskid slides up to your boots.  You toss on your duffel and guitar kit and go back to rummaging around the passenger’s side floorboards to find the second of two dead batts you tossed there.  Perhaps you’re having trouble finding either of the batts because you’re thinking more about the security for the data-paq you’re couriering: obscurity, stealth, subterfuge, or strong-arm?  Or maybe it’s all the food wrappers, the rank and stale sports-bra, and the books getting in your way.

:Yes, there’s one!:

Normally you’d do the obscurity thing without a further thought.  It suits your personality and your wallet, but you’re thinking it over anyway.  Stealth’s too blown from your ride in.  Can’t motor in on a bitchin’ flit like this custom B’bridge and not expect people to notice.  You’re too frazzed after the long jump from [planet name here] to bother with the acting that goes along with subterfuge though you could go for some man burning sex-play.  Can’t have too many of those notches.  Maybe you’ll fit some of that in anyway.  That leaves armed guards and an impromptu parade through the core of Okkatu.  And endless waiting.

:Screw it.  Not waiting.  Not after that ride.:

You remove the data-paq from the skid’s safe and stuff it into a day bag with your floorboard trash and laundry.

:There’s the other batt.:

I thought I’d not yet written your deboarding in the hanger, but apparently I had.  Maybe I can slot this bit in before that one.

Day 276

Carelessly Introducing the Gravity Guitar

All this mess with Jansa and her mother and Jansa’s drama disabuses me of the joy of theme weeks. Especially if you get a dud—or what you work into a dud. I like the serenity of the Juena character too much to ruin any potential by exploring the hotheaded Jansa further at this time. Theme week ends early this week.

In the housekeeping category I should note that I’ll be out of my usual environs for the weekend and into a more challenging writing situation next week. I’ll do what I can to roll with the change-up, but I think any long time reader of 1000 Days knows whats up ahead for 1KD.

I’d planned to leave off of the shanty thread initially and I will after this brief exception to prove the rule.

You post your black-out welding goggles to your forehead to review your work in real light. The welds tighten better near the end, of course they’re not as crisp as Daddy might have done them, but they’ll work for tonight’s gig. And they’ll hold till you get the gravity guitar back to that shop in Tsarko II.

You untie the leather drape across you face to blow out the bits of slag [find out what thats really called] from the pick-ups. However, eager for a warm-up, you begin tuning her out before taking off your coveralls or gogs.

Much better. That soft G wave tightened up and seems gapped better between the D and the B waves—the E’s not hairy. Your tuner-monitor redundantly agrees with your fingers. A few more strums to be sure everything’s heavy and you grind into “House on Fire” by The Oh Johnny! Girls.

Word count: 286
Day 250

Putting the Bainbridge to Bed

Extended inspiration from the fifth one down on the first column. Read related here and here.

You give the deckteam shit for misidentifying your Bainbridge and graciously accept a high berth near the exit corridor. Works every time.

The robots and gizmos are ‘socking’ your flit so you know you’re in the stix again–everywhere else they’d be calling it ‘bagging’. Either way, no dust on the custom flexx. It’ll still drape like a hyperswoop but it’s fair camo for a casual glance in this crowded berthing.

You DX your pad’s tap and get back four bars. Every byte of data gets routed through the flit’s on-board before it floats into your noggin–you can never be too secure. As you walk away with your kit bag slung over your shoulder and your rollie in tow you get the feeling you’re missing something. Oh yeah. You throw the Berthmaster in the watchhouse a curt wave. He probably thinks you’re thanking him for the prime spot in the berthing, but you’re really making sure he sees your gear. Need him to think you’re in town for a long one not just here to kill his wife.

Word count: 192
Day 166

Down by the Memory Banks

I enjoy writing in second person. They say that reading first person feels intimate, I’m sure I haven’t noticed. But I am here to say that writing second person sure feels intimate. Maybe as a long time educator and former classroom teacher I like the instructional character of the language.

Maybe I am doing it wrong but it has the flow of a guide tour or a shared exploration. The eminently more popular third person is just telling. Even when you’re ‘showing, not tell’ it’s still telling. With second person its more like discovery.

And I like the voice I’ve been taking with the wasp posts. A rah rah sort of edgy coach.

Yesterday I wrote ‘memory banks’. I just wanted to say to anyone savvy enough to know that we no longer call them memory banks that I know that too. The ambiance of the phrase appeals to me. Now I’ll have to dig up similar phrases to compliment the piece. Maybe I could ‘cross reference’ something.

Word count: 167
Day 165

Okkatu at Sunset

Inspired by the fifth one down on the first column. Read related here and here.

:Another fucking floating city,: you think.

[Post | Edit | Cancel]

You’ve left the profanity filter on from last night at the bar. And afterward at the brothel.

> Edit

:I hate floating cities.:

Mom commented in your log recently that the in-eye cam is making her sick so you feed out 30 seconds of vid from your flit’s camera instead. The rest of your flight dumps to your on-board memory banks. You never know who or what you’ll find on approach.

:How did I not know Okkatu was a floater?:


:Dammit again!:


> Admin > Feed > Off

Okkatu is the uprooted dome style floater. The graceful arc of it’s roof contrasted by the dribbling geometry of it’s belly. If you were to like any floater over another it would be the ringed ones with towers–thick torus with three towers rather than the thin ones with four or five. And leaning out not perfectly vertical. Those you knew where to berth your flit. This thing was like trying to find the ass on a jellyfish.

You drop the Bain’s twin-turbines down to a creamy 5400 HPM and aim for the center like everyone else tonight. Nav picks up the beacon 5 klicks out. You feel it direct you to lower level because it picked up your false ident–tonight you’re a 20 year mini-cargo drone instead of a heartbreaking tricked out hyperswoop. Looks like it’s communal showers with aliens and boys again.

Word count: 247
Day 164

Day 72: Your Flit Specs Revisted

From yesterday…

With most things you’re laid back and comfortable: you pick your old leather jacket over the chipped-out flexx, you eat apple pie before sushi, and you listen to Stream never xKreem. Your gear and your ride are different chapter, a different verse. Let’s start with your ride: a factory Bainbridge Hoverworks model 9600 Azure with custom iCe by South Bay’s own Greedy Petey.

Looks can kill and this Gorgon bitch drops them out of the skies like stone. Sure she draws attention–no you don’t want it–but you deal. Looks like these might clear the runway, but they don’t get you from here to there and that’s what counts.

Enter the 9600 HPM twin-turbine longitudinal lifter from Top & Dancer. These depatic overdumping fans suck in 50 cubic meters of air per second and redirect it to three main ducts (1 fore; 2 aft) and scores of other micro and nano trim-ducts surrounding your ride. The intake is so powerful at full throttle it blurs visibility in a halo-like arc over the flit’s elevators –small birds are suffocated and crushed prior to being cut and pasted by the depleted Promethium edged blades.

Cruising speed is officially CFD (”call for details”). But most open air riders carry an oxygen mask; no true rider has long hair. You’re bald, sexy bald.

It’s fun to write like this. Took me a long time to hack out the fake details, but I like the result. Digging second person too. I know most folk’s assumption is that it’s pushy to read. Maybe it is. To write however, it feels more like a pep talk you give yourself in the mirror before the big game. It sounds like a coach taking.

The following fits before the “Looks might clear the runway…” line:

Don’t let the Medusa reference throw you, other riders may drop, but it ain’t because she’s ugly. It’s respect and awe. Mostly awe since they don’t see many Bains out here in the stix. Like finding an uncorked 21 year old single-malt in strip-mall mini-mirrorbar. Heads turn, breaths hold, times stop. What they see looks like a hammerhead shark fucked an eagle…no, a hummingbird…no, an eagle. Underneath, Petey’s iCe is some light shade of blue they ain’t thought up a name for yet, but it’s between “If Blood Were Blue Not Red” and “Death by Glacier”. On top, the premium solex skin is a complimentary but darker hue–how Petey pulls that off is why Petey’s greedy.

The following slots in at the end of the blockquote:

At take off and landing the 9600 HPM lifter roars like a lion, but non-stop. It makes even you want to cover your ears like a little girl. You don’t though, you have black flesh-toned ear plugs for that. Even with the looks and the speed and the patented Vise-HoverTM, your favorite part is just as you transition to cruising altitude. The leonine roar fades into a feline purr.

Here you are pausing before the kill. Ah’Taconschientee hangs there like shit from a bird that ate mirrors. Are you savoring the moment or dreading it.

Word count: 262