mario
Redshirt
- Local time
- Today 8:11 AM
- Joined
- Apr 5, 2012
- Messages
- 10
Just wrote up this intro to a sci fi story of undetermined length. The plot would be based around a society in which people's thoughts would be capable of production given enough force and specificity. Please do not hold back in critiquing it, assuming such criticism is mildly constructive in nature. Also would you read this story yes/no
“Picture the gremlin! See him in your mind’s eye!”
The apprentices tensed up, strained gorges visible in the furrows of their brows. Emaciated temples pressed against unyielding silicon headbands, thrusting forward like minnows against a fisher’s net.
“Come on, you maggots! He’s not gonna build himself!” Taskmaster Yol spurred the mindslaves onwards, throwing in a few choice lashes as he felt it appropriate.
Falling behind on another shipment would be unacceptable. He’d already received a visit from a couple of trunk-boned, stone-faced Templars earlier in the cycle for not providing his quota of war horses, which is why his mindslaves now pondered over simple mining gremlins instead of making imperial stallions. As his district was traditionally known for the quality of its mental husbandry, to lose his equine license was tantamount to a public scandal. He’d already been the subject of one too many jokes at the terrestian market gatherings, and even to think his newfound status would potentially become a permanent fixture revolted him. Ah well. Nothing for the mind like a lash from behind, right?
“EEEYAH!” He exclaimed, swinging his lash forward with lethal precision. The unlucky victim gasped in pain and writhed about in his narrow space. Seeing his unearthly pallor, Yol opened his holding device, causing the man to fall forward and hit the ground face up. He made no movements to correct himself.
“Fucking scum.” Yol’s hammer fell to the ground, smashing the man’s head in the process.
That’d get them working, he thought, grinning inwardly. He’d make his shipments yet.
If Yol had been able to see the night-black, tentacled monstrosity hurtling towards him at speeds far exceeding the orbiting speed of the miniscule asteroid he found himself on, he might have, for a brief fraction of a second, considered himself lucky. For if he had had the visual capacity to spot objects at such a distance, he doubtlessly would have possessed the innate visual acumen required to see into the future as well – into all the lies, whispers, tears, bombs, and ultimate catharsis that would emerge from his errant and untimely demise. He could perhaps, in a single moment, even have pictured his apotheosis in the eyes of an unknowing public, crawling for answers in a time where none existed save the cage and the ethereal oracles incessantly expelled onto the planets and colonies from uneasy skies and distant reaches of space.
However, Yol possessed neither said visual capacity nor the intellect to conceive of such thoughts in any case, and as it were the nearly nonexistent interval between the object’s collision and the implosion of his head was filled with nothing but a reflexive, noncommittal grunt.
“Picture the gremlin! See him in your mind’s eye!”
The apprentices tensed up, strained gorges visible in the furrows of their brows. Emaciated temples pressed against unyielding silicon headbands, thrusting forward like minnows against a fisher’s net.
“Come on, you maggots! He’s not gonna build himself!” Taskmaster Yol spurred the mindslaves onwards, throwing in a few choice lashes as he felt it appropriate.
Falling behind on another shipment would be unacceptable. He’d already received a visit from a couple of trunk-boned, stone-faced Templars earlier in the cycle for not providing his quota of war horses, which is why his mindslaves now pondered over simple mining gremlins instead of making imperial stallions. As his district was traditionally known for the quality of its mental husbandry, to lose his equine license was tantamount to a public scandal. He’d already been the subject of one too many jokes at the terrestian market gatherings, and even to think his newfound status would potentially become a permanent fixture revolted him. Ah well. Nothing for the mind like a lash from behind, right?
“EEEYAH!” He exclaimed, swinging his lash forward with lethal precision. The unlucky victim gasped in pain and writhed about in his narrow space. Seeing his unearthly pallor, Yol opened his holding device, causing the man to fall forward and hit the ground face up. He made no movements to correct himself.
“Fucking scum.” Yol’s hammer fell to the ground, smashing the man’s head in the process.
That’d get them working, he thought, grinning inwardly. He’d make his shipments yet.
If Yol had been able to see the night-black, tentacled monstrosity hurtling towards him at speeds far exceeding the orbiting speed of the miniscule asteroid he found himself on, he might have, for a brief fraction of a second, considered himself lucky. For if he had had the visual capacity to spot objects at such a distance, he doubtlessly would have possessed the innate visual acumen required to see into the future as well – into all the lies, whispers, tears, bombs, and ultimate catharsis that would emerge from his errant and untimely demise. He could perhaps, in a single moment, even have pictured his apotheosis in the eyes of an unknowing public, crawling for answers in a time where none existed save the cage and the ethereal oracles incessantly expelled onto the planets and colonies from uneasy skies and distant reaches of space.
However, Yol possessed neither said visual capacity nor the intellect to conceive of such thoughts in any case, and as it were the nearly nonexistent interval between the object’s collision and the implosion of his head was filled with nothing but a reflexive, noncommittal grunt.