Here's a little mindbuggery story I wrote. Let me know your honest opinions. In the words of Uncle Sam, "It Matters!"
A Subliminal Zoom, or Xerxes VIII, Prince of Persia
By Max Salnikov
The Encounter in Amsterdam
For the thirteenth time, Eric checked whether his gun was still firm in his pocket. He wouldn’t have a second chance. If his pistol was to jam, he would not have a second chance – the arab would decapitate him in a microsecond. It was not to jam. His gun was not to jam, echoed in his brain.
Xerxes’s dark green Mercedes slid from behind a corner, Amsterdamian famous Red Light District light reflecting in its chrome.
The car pulled up to Eric, his feet instinctively forcing him back down the brick-paved street. The driver’s door opened and the dark skinned controller of time stepped out, his yatagan’s intricate handle sticking out of an even more intricate sheath. His Armani suit did him justice – the Prince of Persia looked like the Reaper of Souls with a style.
“Well there you are, you little piece of ****,” said Xerxes, stroking his goatee. He went for the sword.
My gun is not to jam, my gun is not to jam, screamed a desperate voice in Eric’s brain as he prepared to pull the trigger, my gun is not to mother****ing jam.
The gun jammed.
Eric desperately flung the useless pistol upwards, just in time to catch Xerxes’s arc of steel on its barrel. Sparks exploded from the contact of metals.
Eric ducked under the sword, his limbs and mind awakening with controlled precision. When he was on the other side of the Prince’s yatagan, he kneed the Reaper of Souls in the balls.
The Prince bent, but then made a back roll and escaped Eric’s finishing pistol-whip move. Having regained control in a moment, Xexes flung himself from the ground and free-ran from his car’s open window to its roof and then to the wall.
Xerxes hopped window to window, muscles of steel portrayed in the new-torn holes of his Armani suit. He was going for the roof-top.
Eric flung the useless gun aside, and free-ran after The Prince.
The Importance of Color Green
Rice dropped the controller. His “I’m-way-too-much-into-biomechanical-augmentation” friend X-box flipped a popcorn into his mouth. His massive weight gave him the natural authority of the man occupying the bigger part of the couch.
“You know what, X-box?” said Rice, his plan of being the sole conquistador of the couch manipulating firmly into place. He would win authority in the only field that mattered – the human proverbial processing power, known as the brains.
“What?” his friend said, sending another popcorn flake into mouth. Rice decided to concentrate on the pulsating light in X-box’s white plastic jaw, and that helped him get the Green Light to go for the kill.
“I bet I can read your mind,” said Rice carefully.
“What do you bet?”
“If I win, I get the couch. All couch to myself, like a real Marine, you know what I’m talking about?”
“And if you lose?”
“And if I lose I give you the console. It’s gonna be like your personal Christmas.”
“You got a deal.”
“But keep in mind, you’ll have to come off clean. You know what I mean?”
“All right, all right, you got it,” said X-box.
“All right. Think of a color.”
Dear Reader, Please Take a Note on a Piece of Paper of a Color Yourself
Eric pulled himself up over the last two windows, and rolled onto the concrete roof. Xerxes was already on a different rooftop. Eric lunged himself back on his feet and ran for the ledge. Before he reached it, he coiled his knees and pushed his body over. He landed on the other rooftop and went into a roll. Xerxes touched off a ledge and into one of the building’s open windows. Eric followed.
The nano-thin sensors implanted in his skin captured his every movement. He met Xerxes in a long corridor, its features long decayed by time. A lone lightbulb swung gently from the ceiling, casting a play of shadow and light on the corridor’s plaster less walls.
There could be no other way, thought Eric. The microscopic technology in his voice chords sent a tychon-speed signal to Rice, and Rice opened his mouth to speak.
“The color,” said Rice, “Is green.”
A Subliminal Zoom, or Xerxes VIII, Prince of Persia
By Max Salnikov
The Encounter in Amsterdam
For the thirteenth time, Eric checked whether his gun was still firm in his pocket. He wouldn’t have a second chance. If his pistol was to jam, he would not have a second chance – the arab would decapitate him in a microsecond. It was not to jam. His gun was not to jam, echoed in his brain.
Xerxes’s dark green Mercedes slid from behind a corner, Amsterdamian famous Red Light District light reflecting in its chrome.
The car pulled up to Eric, his feet instinctively forcing him back down the brick-paved street. The driver’s door opened and the dark skinned controller of time stepped out, his yatagan’s intricate handle sticking out of an even more intricate sheath. His Armani suit did him justice – the Prince of Persia looked like the Reaper of Souls with a style.
“Well there you are, you little piece of ****,” said Xerxes, stroking his goatee. He went for the sword.
My gun is not to jam, my gun is not to jam, screamed a desperate voice in Eric’s brain as he prepared to pull the trigger, my gun is not to mother****ing jam.
The gun jammed.
Eric desperately flung the useless pistol upwards, just in time to catch Xerxes’s arc of steel on its barrel. Sparks exploded from the contact of metals.
Eric ducked under the sword, his limbs and mind awakening with controlled precision. When he was on the other side of the Prince’s yatagan, he kneed the Reaper of Souls in the balls.
The Prince bent, but then made a back roll and escaped Eric’s finishing pistol-whip move. Having regained control in a moment, Xexes flung himself from the ground and free-ran from his car’s open window to its roof and then to the wall.
Xerxes hopped window to window, muscles of steel portrayed in the new-torn holes of his Armani suit. He was going for the roof-top.
Eric flung the useless gun aside, and free-ran after The Prince.
The Importance of Color Green
Rice dropped the controller. His “I’m-way-too-much-into-biomechanical-augmentation” friend X-box flipped a popcorn into his mouth. His massive weight gave him the natural authority of the man occupying the bigger part of the couch.
“You know what, X-box?” said Rice, his plan of being the sole conquistador of the couch manipulating firmly into place. He would win authority in the only field that mattered – the human proverbial processing power, known as the brains.
“What?” his friend said, sending another popcorn flake into mouth. Rice decided to concentrate on the pulsating light in X-box’s white plastic jaw, and that helped him get the Green Light to go for the kill.
“I bet I can read your mind,” said Rice carefully.
“What do you bet?”
“If I win, I get the couch. All couch to myself, like a real Marine, you know what I’m talking about?”
“And if you lose?”
“And if I lose I give you the console. It’s gonna be like your personal Christmas.”
“You got a deal.”
“But keep in mind, you’ll have to come off clean. You know what I mean?”
“All right, all right, you got it,” said X-box.
“All right. Think of a color.”
Dear Reader, Please Take a Note on a Piece of Paper of a Color Yourself
Eric pulled himself up over the last two windows, and rolled onto the concrete roof. Xerxes was already on a different rooftop. Eric lunged himself back on his feet and ran for the ledge. Before he reached it, he coiled his knees and pushed his body over. He landed on the other rooftop and went into a roll. Xerxes touched off a ledge and into one of the building’s open windows. Eric followed.
The nano-thin sensors implanted in his skin captured his every movement. He met Xerxes in a long corridor, its features long decayed by time. A lone lightbulb swung gently from the ceiling, casting a play of shadow and light on the corridor’s plaster less walls.
There could be no other way, thought Eric. The microscopic technology in his voice chords sent a tychon-speed signal to Rice, and Rice opened his mouth to speak.
“The color,” said Rice, “Is green.”
幻術
