spontaneousbook.bsky.social
I'm gonna write a book here
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engines through the floorboards. Boop opened his eyes, reached for his remaining knight, advancing the piece and taking a pawn. “Check,” he said, lining his capture next to the others.
“What're you playing at, Boop?” his opponent scoffed, taking the offending knight off the board with a defending
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chest rising and falling. He listened to it, shutting off all the other sounds, the other voices, the chattering newsman on the telecast, the footsteps on the spiral staircase, the air fans cycling on. It all faded away as he breathed. His shoulders relaxed, his arms. He felt the electric hum of the
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Right? Thank goodness white people have such a fierce advocate in elon musk.
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"oh no, he's not racist. he's frequently advocating for white people."
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Has Bezos prevented you from calling musk a big dumb racist, or is that a choice you all make on your own?
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ordering some more fliff and spending another day or two with Ms. Riley.
The look she returned did not covey the same interest. “We’re being attacked,” McLaurine Riley said. She held per portable up so he could see her screen.
“Paul!” Baz said, pulling his underwear back up.
(End Chapter 3)
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again.
“What?” he asked, turning his head towards the open doorway and splashing himself on the toes. “Shit.”
He heard Mclaurine get up from the bed and rush to the doorway. He looked at her naked body once again, appreciating it now that it was awake and alive and moving. Baz thought about
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he scratched at the whiskers, noticing the grays around his chin. Stepping over to the urinal, he undid his robe and lowered his boxers.
“Oh Shit!” she yelled from the bedroom.
Mclaurine, he thought, finally remembering her name. A family name or some shit.
“Oh fuck, no! When?” she exclaimed
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temperature to 26, please.”
“It won’t work with your voice,” he said, matching her style and turning the light on.
“Raising room temperature,” said the house virtual assistant.
“Shit,” Baz mumbled. He looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard was getting long,
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the side of his hand and placing it on the bed.
“Here,” he said.
“What about the blankets?” she asked, gripping the phone with her toes and sliding it towards her reach.
“I have to piss.” Baz turned and went towards the bathroom.
“Techie,” she said in a singsong voice, “raise the room
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“Hand me my portable,” she said pointing towards the coffee table, “and the covers.” He found her cellphone next to a glass placed too close to the corner. He picked it up, pushing the glass towards the middle of the table with his knee, before wiping powdery residue off the phone’s screen with
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he knew he should call his father. “You know, meetings with the corporation.”
She rolled her eyes then shook her head. “Is that creep still here?”
“Who? What, you mean the guards? No, different creep,” Baz said beside the bed once more. Paul had retreated back to the shadows.
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rattled around his head (Fuinta? Neco? Jacinda?), before he spoke. “I’m sorry, but look I needed to get up. It’s a big day,” he lied, not knowing if he had any obligations at all. If it was Kimsday, he would be due at his younger half-brother, Aesop’s, 30th birthday party this evening. In any case,
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empty save for a few groundskeepers cutting a path through the garden. A statue of his great-great-great-great-grandfather, Kimbrel Meyer Stumm, faced away from him, one arm always raised in triumph. A bird landed on its head. Baz turned back to the woman behind the pillows, a half a score of names
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He walked to a closed set of curtains, not knowing what state the suns would be in, and pulled a tassel-ended rope until they were open. It was the worst kind of day, overcast with clouds and gray. It could be early morning or an hour before sunset. He walked near the window, the courtyard below was
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pillowcases in her grasp. “What, what the fuck, what is it?” she asked. “Why did you take the covers off me?”
“Honey,” he said, trying to remember her name and now feeling like an idiot for not being able to do so. Judging by the mess, the packets of fliff, they’d been in this room for days.
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Foxtrot, whatever the fuck your name is, wake up, please, I beg you. Get up.”
This did the trick, and the naked woman was soon sitting, pushing herself to the headboard and covering up with pillows. She rubbed at her eyes, smearing eyeliner down her cheek. Baz saw the eye makeup all over the silk
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“Yes, sir.”
“We give him the bull, and, and,” Baz stammered, “and he shitters it out. I don’t know what the fuck that expression means anyway.” He hurried over to the bed and began shoving at its corner. When this didn’t work, he began shaking the naked woman by her ankles. “Honey, Helena, uh,
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>Early life
>Business career
>The Cleaving of Washington
>Necromancy
>Personal life
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Nothing cleaner than thousands and thousands of cars
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A few years younger than Baz, his skin was a shade darker and healthy looking. “The newsman,” Paul said.
“Ah, fuck, you’re right. Fuck, fucking spindle fuck,” he cursed, finding a robe draped over a chair.
“I’m sorry sir.”
Baz waved Paul off. “No, it’s – and he’s no newsman, he’s a bullshitter.”
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Paul wore standard black coveralls, the zipper half undone revealing a phaser shield. He had similar armor over other parts of his body, a weapon at his side and wore a blast helmet, though the visor was up. Good looking kid thought Baz as he noticed Paul’s agreeable face and light blue eyes.
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high praise!
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Well said. Cosmic epic with the old gods fighting, so great
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Love this series. Halfway through book 2 now. Ilium books were great too
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“I don’t know who she is,” he said, taking a step away from the wall and steadily raising his voice, no doubt trying to rouse the sleeping woman, “but I do know her father.”
Baz smiled as he found his pair of worn gray slippers and stepped into the pair. “What, who’s her father?”
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“Sir, yes, that is,” Paul said, his voice trailing away.
Baz was already halfway to the bathroom. “What? Out with it, Paul.”
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Baz could see the guard lift his arm to check his timepiece. “Twelve hours, sir.”
“Christ,” Baz shook his head. He turned to Paul. “I want her out of here by the time I get back from taking a piss.”
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from the sudden chill. “Her.”
“Ah, I don’t know sir. She was here when I got here.”
“Here when you,” Baz repeated then stopped, confused. He looked at the woman again, her hair was long and brown, and her toenails were painted red. “Paul, how long have I been asleep?”
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“Who’s that?” asked Baz Manuel, still blinking his eyes awake.
“Paul, sir,” said the voice in the shadows.
“Not you,” Baz snarled, reaching over to the bed next to the couch. He grabbed at the pile of blankets on the bed and threw them to the floor. A naked woman was sleeping there, she shuddered
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and scratched at his belly through his shirt, feeling the hairs underneath. “I’m getting skinny,” he announced.
“You are, sir.” It was one his housemen and guards, standing in a dark corner near the door. It was also true; Baz had stopped eating altogether some days.
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penis was coming out of a loose pair of underwear. On a coffee table before him, half-drunk cocktail glasses stood around empty packets of fliff, a new party drug. Searching for slippers, he noticed how cold the marble floor was as he stood and tucked things back into place. Baz loudly yawned and
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We agreed on a ceasefire, like he's dropping bombs on russia 🙄
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firm on the floor. “Shall we order our breakfast?” she asked her crew and was greeted with affirmatives. “And can we do something about the bloody awful heat in here?”
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achievement, Constance thought, though a third was on the way. Swiping away the image of her children, a menu flashed on the screen. She chose the address book and began to scroll through the list of names. Her stomach began to churn. It was going to be a long day. Constance leaned forward, feet
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she crossed one leg over the other. On her left, a monitor glowed waiting for her security code. She typed in the numbers on the keypad and the screen changed to a picture of her two children, Registry and Attainment. Only twelve more children until she had as many as Meyer Stumm. An unrealistic
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This is a very questionable observation from an instructor. It is not "heavy crime" in deeply blue areas (blue cities are safer than basically anywhere in the states), it is high profile crime that the news latches onto.
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it's old timer stubbornness. they've done this job or fought this fight before. trump won? so what, he can beat him again. he "knows" how, just do the thing that worked last time, again. it's lazy, won't require him to do anything complicated, and he'll learn nothing.
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pinned to his jacket – Constance didn’t know the kind. It was the only vibrant color in the painting. Even the inscription encircling Kimbrel Meyer Stumm (“Our Perpetual and Vigilant Founder”) was done in a muted yellow. Glass sat in her chair and rapped her fingers on the armrest. Leaning back, she
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while the painted portrait of Meyer Stumm stared back at her. Dressed in a late 2nd millennial suit, a long gray beard nearly covered the length of his necktie. Dark brown eyes looked at the viewer and his lips were faintly separated. His gaze was neither loving nor scornful. A pink flower was
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the step to the commander’s chair. The Hathor was supposed to escort the freighters currently loading at B-dock. Without it, she didn’t know how they could make the trip. Constance eyed the security office, her crew tensely huddled over their workstations. Windows looked out over the mining facility
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bsky.app/profile/spon...
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“Knows about, sir?”
“Hathor,” Constance sighed. “Who else have you alerted?”
Saffett’s head shook again. “I assume the authorities know,” he meekly offered.
Her headache was becoming incandescent. “Thank you, Eman. You and your specialist are dismissed. Go and get some sleep.” Chief Glass took
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could do, except - her mind continued and she rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “All right, everyone back to their stations.” She waited until they were back in front of their monitors.
“Who else knows about this?”
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and Ganymede, Luxor, but no Hathor.”
Constance wanted to lash out then, to belittle their foolish incompetence and diagnostic tomfoolery, but Constance calmed herself and breathed through her nose. Now’s not the time, she thought. Besides, they weren’t truly at fault, and there was little the chief
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analog tuner. The rest of the crew as if feeling the growing tension in their commanding officer’s temples slowly fanned out a step from the comms table.
“Well?” Lieutenant Commander Glass inquired.
Saffett looked to the floor and shook his head. “Everything works perfectly. We’ve reached Io and