Wall-E, Ex Machina
I am so awesome, I fail to meet deadlines I set for myself. So you get two drabbles for the price of one this month, not thirty minutes before January actually ends!
Title: Bureaucracy
Month: December 2008
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Notes: Inspired by my brother's rants about how there's no reason for a trash compactor to have a tape recorder on it.
“And in this panel, we have button controls for a few additional attachments for moving heavy rubble.”
Mr. Hunt of Buy n’ Large Management squinted at the engineer’s diagram, “Interesting,” he said, baffled, then, “Hey, it looks kind of like a tape deck!”
“Sir?”
“You know, those retro things they had before digital? Or maybe those were CD’s. Whatever, we should have one!”
“Sir, there’d be no point-”
“I’ll just run it by the committee. Thanks, Sarah!” Mr. Hunt beamed. He loved having good ideas.
The tool attachments were eventually lost in a bureaucratic jungle.
The tape deck stayed.
Title: Paranoia
Month: January 2009
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG-13/very soft R? (The format limits the number of cursewords I can throw in, see)
Notes: spoilers through Tag, which incidentally is as far as I've read.
Suits, Jackson thinks, plowing frantically through the work shed, they’ll need hazmat suits in case the terrorists try anything chemical, the specs are here, somewhere, somewhere.
He stumbles over something, it screams and he panics because maybe it’s a bomb and al-Qaeda’s figured out that he worked with Mitch, God damn him, and they’ll all die.
It’s the old radio. Jackson picks it up, turns the knob. Station 660 sounds like ball games in summer, Emily bouncing on his knee. Station 1490 sounds like Mitch.
Jackson hurls the radio across the shed. Who cares if the fucking stars are down?
Title: Bureaucracy
Month: December 2008
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Notes: Inspired by my brother's rants about how there's no reason for a trash compactor to have a tape recorder on it.
“And in this panel, we have button controls for a few additional attachments for moving heavy rubble.”
Mr. Hunt of Buy n’ Large Management squinted at the engineer’s diagram, “Interesting,” he said, baffled, then, “Hey, it looks kind of like a tape deck!”
“Sir?”
“You know, those retro things they had before digital? Or maybe those were CD’s. Whatever, we should have one!”
“Sir, there’d be no point-”
“I’ll just run it by the committee. Thanks, Sarah!” Mr. Hunt beamed. He loved having good ideas.
The tool attachments were eventually lost in a bureaucratic jungle.
The tape deck stayed.
Title: Paranoia
Month: January 2009
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG-13/very soft R? (The format limits the number of cursewords I can throw in, see)
Notes: spoilers through Tag, which incidentally is as far as I've read.
Suits, Jackson thinks, plowing frantically through the work shed, they’ll need hazmat suits in case the terrorists try anything chemical, the specs are here, somewhere, somewhere.
He stumbles over something, it screams and he panics because maybe it’s a bomb and al-Qaeda’s figured out that he worked with Mitch, God damn him, and they’ll all die.
It’s the old radio. Jackson picks it up, turns the knob. Station 660 sounds like ball games in summer, Emily bouncing on his knee. Station 1490 sounds like Mitch.
Jackson hurls the radio across the shed. Who cares if the fucking stars are down?