Sunday, April 7, 2013


By Kraggh:

Getting Shot in the Head

Ike suffered a blunt trauma to the head. Ivan, a doctor, picked him up.

"Are you alright?" asked Ike.

"A brief concussion. Computation skills compromised," said Ike. "I am hypothesizing that I can trust many of my own instincts at a level that the everage individual could trust theirs to carry out regular analysis. However, tomorrow, expect personality changes. The knock was to the back of my head, and the vibrations affected my frontal lobe where rationality and self-control are maintained. I will be agitated, possibly depressed. On a moral level, given that this is merely a blunt trauma as opposed to a spike in my brain, I would assume that I am morally trustworthy. At least we have that."

"Right," said Ivan. "I will run a few tests. This game of baseball is over."

Ian ran over from the pitcher's mount and Io ran over from the outfield. It was difficult having a game of baseball with only four people. Ian apologized to Ike for hitting him in the head with the baseball.

"It's okay," said Ivan. "He said it's going to be okay. And it's nothing that can't be fixed."

"Great," said Ian. "Suffering consequences for our actions isn't really our thing."

"Ywis, I concur," said Ike. He rubbed the back of his head, where it hurt the most. He had been distracted and looked behind him when he stood up to bad. Perhaps he would not have been as hard if he had been wearing a helmet. They would have to take that into consideration last time.

Ivan put the bat away and they left the parking lot. Io walked next to Ivan. "Tough hit," she said. "Who am I kidding? You'll be okay. At least it wasn't a bullet to the head."

"In that case, I would still be okay, only temporarily incapacitated," said Ike.

"We have yet to test that," she said.

A car drove up in front of them and several people jumped out with machine guns. One of them grabbed Ivan.

"You know I could very well test that. However, there's no point in trying if the risk is death. Proof might as well come about by natural means," said Ivan.

"Are you tempted to prove it right away?" said Io.

"Ywis," said Ike. "Your concern is the only thing to hold me back. However, in any event that I am to risk my life for someone else, it makes complete ethical sense to experiment it then."

"Wait, what's up with Ivan?" asked Io. They finally decided to pay attention to the violence playing out in front of them, and Ivan taking on several individuals with machine guns at once.

"He looks like he could use some help," said Ian.

"Why would I want to help him?" asked Io. "He's terrible. I have no idea what he's being doing, but he's got himself into some trouble, as always. If it was real trouble I would understand and I would help, but he can take care of himself."

Ivan got shot twice in the torso. He fell to the ground.

"There goes our mad scientist doctor," said Ian.

One of the thugs lifted Ivan off the ground and began dragging him to the car.

"He'll be all right," said Io.

"Just in case," said Ike, "I really think that it should be logical to do something."

"Wait, Ike, you're being affected by your blunt blow to the head! There's no point in doing anything! Where's the logic to helping Ivan when he doesn't want to be helped? Isn't that right, Ivan?"

Ivan coughed and responded to Io, "She's right. Stay out of this."

By now you, the reader, will have figured out that this is a very odd situation. Do not worry, it gets even less ordinary as things progress.

Ike was overpowered and had his hands tied behind his back as he was forced into the back of the van with Ivan. Not that he put up any fight. The drivers went off without them, ignoring Ian and Io. Ivan looked over at Ike. "It sucks," he said.

"I would consider this a peculiar situation," said Ike. "You will heal yourself afterward after we get out of it, when they take you wherever it is that they want to take you, because you clearly intend on breaking into their base of operations or meeting their head. Am I interfering?"

"Yes," said Ivan. "Now I'm going to have to start all over again. Ike, how could you do this?"

"Blunt trauma," said Ike. "I do not perceive myself as thinking straight."

"Well, let's change that," said Ivan. "Right now, you're a liability, no offense. If I can't have everything go as according to plan, might as well fulfill an unrelated objective. Help get me out of this van."

Ike broke out of his restraints with apparent ease and helped Ivan out of his. They then opened the back of the van and dropped out of it while it was going at eighty miles per hour out of town. They hit the shoulder of the road and rolled a ways. Then the drivers of the van seemed to notice and turned around.

"Now run behind me as a human shield!" said Ivan. "I really can't afford to get shot in the head!"

Ike did just that, and got shot in the head after fifteen seconds of this formation. He fell down to the ground, dead. Ivan at once dropped to the ground and covered the top of his head with his hands. The van pulled up to him, and people jumped out, and they grabbed him.

When they were about to drive off when the bullet hole in Ike's head began to glow, and then the droplets of blood that hit the ground also began to glow, and shine a brilliant silver until it blinded everyone. Only Ivan was smart enough to look away.

Ike's body stood up, then hovered above the ground, and disappeared.


By Nuile:

Deliberately I highlighted the page of text, took a breath, and hit backspace.

It wasn’t right. None of it was right. They were the wrong words.

I beat a tattoo on the table beside the laptop and finally returned my patient hands to the keyboard. There they remained, poised over the surface, ready to dance across the keys like a pianist’s fingers, bringing music to the blank whiteness . . .

But they hovered uncertainly. Where to start? Where to start? After starting over so many times already . . .

Something was wrong. The story didn’t feel like what I had set out to make it. I had already rewritten it thrice over; by now it had become stale. I had written the life out of it, and there was none left.

I rose and paced, running fingers agitated by an ague of frustration through my hair. The thought had come into my mind with such vigor, a bundle of energy waiting to be unleashed . . .

I had nurtured it and developed it, giving it all the care and attention it required . . .

It was fresh! It was full! It was alive! It had romped and frolicked through the realms of my mind in a state of elation and sublime perfection. It was the ideal idea . . .

But somehow, somewhere, on the path from my brain to my fingertips . . . it died. The beautiful story I sat down to begin was dead.

What it needed now was new life. It needed new breath.

It needed a new thought . . . and a new title.


I lunged into my chair and awakened the computer from the screensaver. I highlighted the old title and hit backspace. My fingers glided over the keys. One word appeared at the head of the page:


And it didn’t stop there . . .

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