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Vignettes of Horror: Happiness, War, Vagina, and The Dead Girl
Posted By: SeverianofUrth
Date: 24 August 2006, 4:36 pm
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A Girl Named War
And her name was War, and she was clad in dead brocolliers, brocolliers being a word not yet brought into existence. Her name, being War, and her garb, being dead brocolliers, meant that she was also a beautiful, charismatic, Spartan.
War had no parents, being a mysterious orphan found in suspiciously divine circumstances. War was found adrift in the sewer in a puzzlingly waterproof wicker basket, and was raised by two loving parents, both of whom were men. War grew, learned to read, to talk, to listen, to sing; she soon proved to be a prodigy in the arts of dance and song. But her talent was noticed early on by the military, and at the age of seven, she was conscripted--rather, kidnapped--by the military.
War: a dazzlingly symbolic name. War had no equal, as far as names went, for a promising young soldier who also happened to be quite--insert italicons--bromillicious. There are many words to describe War, but none are yet in existence; hence the difficulty in translating this 26th Century text into 21st Century English.
War survived the grafting process. War became a Spartan. But it was there that she fell in love--for, being beautiful, the men found her attractive, and finding that attempting to rape a Spartan (being men in masculine careers, they found women to be an interestingly exploitive anomaly in the scheme of fuck-me-fuck-you-fuck-fuck-let's-fuck of things) was akin to commiting seppuku with a shovel, they dated her and gave her flowers. War ate them all.
War married, secretly. She had happiness; she had a vagina. But then, the Covenant came, and blasted her happiness, but not her vagina, into smithereens.
It happened upon the planet of Harvest, in a beautiful morning, marred only by the dead bodies littering the countryside. War marched on, clad in dead brocolliers, rifles in her many hands and a knife clasped with her beautiful, pink toes. Beautifully, she carved up incoming transport ships, and when battleships appeared on the horizon and began to blast all into oblivion, she flew through the air and landed atop one of the giant tuning forks.
And there, War died. Being clad in dead brocolliers, she suffocated, when the tuning fork lifted up into space.
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The Dead Girl
Extensive planning had to be laid out before the plan could be put into action. The plan being of course the blueprints for evolution, the church-ordained guides for appropriate genetic modifications—an extra finger was acceptable, but not two, and certainly no extra hands or arms sprouting from some unholy place of the body. No wings; that was heresy. No extra mouths, or a small nose, but big eyes—what they called 'anime-magic'—was acceptable. Extra intelligence up to the 180 quota was accepted, but anything beyond it was to be shunned.
Anna pondered her options. She'd chosen violet eyes with a radius of two inches, a slightly slanted look that in her opinion made her look like a fly (but Daren loved it, so there it was), but she was unsure about the nose-mods that would completely morph it into a tiny nub, another one of the toon-inspired surgeries. Daren, Daren… she loved him, and he worked hard, but should she shrink down the size of her nose and enlarge her eyes grotesquely for his affection? The answer lay in the credit card he'd given her in the morning.
"I've decided," she said. "I'll just take the eyes and the nose, please."
The autosurgeon blinked its approval. A stamper slid out of the wall, and Anna swiped the credit card, thumbed it with her fingerprint, and signed it, Anna Duvlosy. There was a moment as the info was transmitted back to headquarters, then approval chimed and a 'thank you!' note rang out in the room.
"Please," the autosurgeon intoned, "lie down in the bunk labeled Duvlosy, Green." Anna complied, and felt the cool, comfortable fabric of the bunk sink into her flesh. A million tiny needles—that what they were—but to her, it felt like soft jelly, a water bed filled with yogurt. Anesthetics were injected, then, into every surface of her skin; there was a slight numbing sensation, then she—simply blacked out.
Her body was then wrapped in saran wrap; then, a flash clone was made. The real Anna Duvlosy was sucked into the tube, and her body was cut up and rendered into tissue transplants.
The clone had lovely eyes and a nice nose. It was a very happy marriage.
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