Uncertain and whimsy still, but in a good way

I'm in a fantastic mood.

Grenadier Six stood at Outpost Sierra, near the peak of Mount Recliner. He'd radioed in as soon as that beast Moriarty came into view - and watched the entire pathetic transgression between an unknown Rifleman and the ungodly monster. The Rifleman was now headed in this direction, looking like he meant business.

It could not be taken as good for the Tan army that a Green unit was coming inward to the line, looking like he meant business. As soon as Field Base returned orders, Grenadier Six would be prepared to bring a stop to the Rifleman's assault. Checking his pinned percussives, the Grenadier eased back into his lookout seat.

The War was built into these men. These toys.

I stand at the corner of whimsy and uncertain

I really kind of liked the line from an upcoming george clooney movie, that I saw in the trailer, something to the effect of, "relationships are the heaviest things we have in our lives. Weight keeps us from moving, and movement is life."

It was kind of depressing, but it had a stoic pragmatism to it. At the same time, it holds a kind of wild flame. It's independent, and fearlessly so, but it still makes me feel sad.

Not fiction, but I'm not clogging Kickass with something dumb like this.

Let's keep on with Rifleman Three, shall we?

Rifleman Three's milliscale feet stumbled just a moment when the whole plastic world rocked with an unfathomable blast. As he bolted down the smooth, circular-studded path the airsoft-pellet shrapnel rained upon him. A roar came from the sky as the opposing general of today's combat joyfully pranced; celebrating what he felt was his imminent victory. The Rifleman was not allowed to stop.

The objective was simple: get to Charlie Base. If Rifleman Three could arrive there, the whole war would be over. That statement may seem easy to comprehend, but it is one of weight and savour: the whole war would be over. Not this battle, not this campaign. The war.

Charlie Base lay about fifteen feet farther west. There were two mountains on the path - one with a long, smooth tunnel beneath it, which was a deathtrap if he was sighted on entrance, the other which would have to be scaled. The great cushioney mass was climbable, but without tools it would prove treacherous. A thumping, padding sound which was more felt than heard brought the Rifleman from his thoughts, still running on those little plastic feet. In comparison, they rang shrill against the ground. The terrible source of the noise entered his sight.

"Mrooow", boomed the growling monster. Standing easily five men high and more in length than could be counted, the enormous thing closed on the Rifleman fast. He'd seen it before, but never from within 5 feet. It would pass beneath an airbase, or in the arms of a general. This beast known as Moriarty was an object of fear among all armies, and the Rifleman could do nothing but throw himself to the ground in an attempt to hide.

The pounding drew closer, soft pads of the beast beating the earth like a drum - the Rifleman truly cowered, sliding as close to the plastic line-tree near him as possible. The awful noise would deafen anyone! Now came the hot breath, as the horrific feline slowed and made to capture its puny prey. This was his last moment - the war would go on, Charlie Base would not be reached. Images of the glorious Package flashed in Rifleman Three's plastic mind. He longed for the closeness afforded by the pile he would be tossed into when the war finished. The eternal sleep he could share with his bretheren - now cut from his future. That fishy breath cooled a moment - relief? What could this be?

And a swooshing, awful noise struck. He rolled through the air, smashed by a mighty paw.

Landing in a pile of 1x1 3-high lego blocks, Rifleman Three had a full view of his captor, charging... away? The tree had been ripped from the earth, and sent careening down the path in the direction he had come. Moriarty leaped after it, batting with his terrible arms. The Rifleman was sore, but unscathed. The war could still be won. He pressed on west, to Charlie Base.


-_- ... I'm really not sure what I was thinking when I came up with this.

more writing, less structure

time blends together, so that I don't know what was when
I sit here and puzzle, with my conceited ojectives, but cannot figure out when that was, where were you, why this or that

don't live in the past, it's the only thing more confusing than the present


I enjoy free writing. I'm sitting here, hidden, not even looking at the screen, just relaxing. I'm typing and flowing, it's good. I like Zoot Woman. I like to sleep a lot. There are no labs for the graphics course. Calvert thinks that students can find their own way around a computer by the time they've hit 4th year. That makes sense. I'm going to take Graphics and Compilers next semester, instead of going back to Microsoft. I'd planned to go back in the winter, but I never really worked to make that happen. Oh well - it means I get to be here and see the people I like to see, for longer. I will hopefully be able to go back there and do something really interesting. Pause. I stopped to breath - just to sit here and exhale, inhale,exhale, inhale. It's nice. I have a lot of work to do -- why aren't I working? I don't really want to at the moment - nah.

Stopped to read.

Turned some music on. It's so easy to question, to sit here and feel down for no reason. There's an easy answer though: don't. So I won't. I'll sit here and be positive. I'm just a tiny cog in a great big unchanging system, and that makes me very goddamned happy. THat brings me the kind of infinite joy that one could normally only extend to the likes of big brother.

Hours pass, I eat and sit. The whole village walks by. Then I sleep, in the home away from home. And now I'm back. To be finished.


--enh, that didn't work quite as well as I'd like.

Let's write something during networking

A little man went running westward down the path, his tiny feet made hollow noises against the plastic earth.

This wasn't a rare sight here. Day in and out, week on and off, miniature men skittered back and forth on artificial, well maintained terrain, fighting out battles and working together in ways real men only wished they could. They fought for valour, for honour, and for victory. The fate of the little plastic world hung in the balance - until the next day and the next battle. Unless this was a multiday campaign or something, then it might hang until the game is reset.

That's pretty much how you play with Army Men. You slap 'em down and shuffle them around, shoot and kick and jump and run (at a tiny plastic scale) and it all works out in the end. The good guys (you) win, and the bad guys (your friend Jimmy) lose, and the greatest tales of brotherly love, sacrifice, and heroism are played out in a child's mind. This is a great game. But it's not always just a game.

This tiny plastic man knew something. Something very, very big. What Rifleman Three knew could change the whole big outer (not plastic) world. And he was about to be killed.


---yeah that`s a good enough place to stop