Day: April 12, 2025

At the 73rd street kiosk the line stretched almost to 74th. People waited slouched on walls, barely talking. The rain fell from the sky in sheets. It was worse on 78th where the line was so thick and angry that Kenyon had seen two fights breakout before deciding to pick himself up off the street and find someplace new. The line wasn’t moving anyway. It never moved fast anymore, not since they added the new battery of tests. You needed to test, then you needed to wait, and only then could you make your entry.

Kenyon trudged through the rain towards 89th. He didn’t like going back uptown. He had a theory that the winners always came from lower Manhattan. The big winners did. Nothing over 100 credits ever rang up north of 96th. He’d heard it was always that way; heard in that when they still let trains run through the tunnels below the city most people would get off at 96th. The people that traveled on were always like him.

The rain picked up as he approached the 89th street kiosk. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, fights? A longer line than 78th even? What he saw was a near empty kiosk sitting on the corner. The last person waiting was just starting to press her arm into the slot.

Someone had already won. He’d never heard of a kiosk awarding more than one prize a day. When somebody won–when they dropped their guard and let on–the kiosk would empty. The line of contestants would move on to another block hoping for an opportunity to win enough to eat for the night, or a warm bed if they were lucky.

He watched her as he approached the kiosk. Pedestrians huddled under umbrellas moved past her on the sidewalk, keeping a healthy distance from her and the kiosk. When she finished, withdrawing her arm, he watched her small mouth tense, waiting for her result. She glanced at him nervously, covering her readout implant as she did. Still, there was something there. He slowed, staring at her.

She was smiling.

He broke into a shambling run, hoping that he could get to the kiosk before anyone else. It was impolite to ask what she’d won, but it was clear that she did. It was also clear that she wasn’t going to stick around to tell him how much. By the time he arrived at the kiosk she was halfway down the busy street, weaving between slower pedestrians and disappearing into the fog of rain.

He came up to the kiosk. It was still making the grumbling sound it did as it cleaned itself. The smell of ozone tinted the thick air. Kenyon slid his arm into the slot. There came the familiar beeping sound he’d been told was co-opted from gameshows of the distant past. The receptacle tightened around his bicep, checking his pressure. Then the needle sunk in with a small jolt. He knew he didn’t have any diseases that were on the list, but that didn’t change how long it took to for the test to go through. As it did, he waited and prayed. 100 credits would be enough for him to eat for the rest of the week.

The machine cycled, clearing him for blood withdrawal. He’d given a pint yesterday and hadn’t won anything. If he decided to double his chances today. He clicked the middle option. The machine whirred and bit into him. He felt the fluid leaving his body and hoped.

After a time the whirring stopped. The readout implant on his opposite arm chimed. His eyes widened.

I had originally intended to write a 500 word short story this evening, but I’ve been up since 2:30 AM and that isn’t going to happen. Instead, I’m just going to wax philosophical for a bit about how I want to write. Not in the I want to write more sense, but in the sense of what Voice I want to take on i’ve spent years cultivating our reputation and following as a role-playing game author. However, somewhere along the way, I forgot what I was trying to do in the first place. I was trying to process novels, of course. I was trying to publish short stories. However, I was also trying to tell a certain kind of tail one that is not derivative of a genre, but advancing of a genre. What I really wanted to do was to move the needle. I wanted to tell stories that were being told. I wanted to tell stories that reflected different parts of this very intricate story that is the sixth world.

however, I will be set in rather quickly, and after a time, my stories became rude and repetitive, and in many instances, I was really trying to push for the tale of certain characters that I really liked. Yet I didn’t know why I like them. I had no real understanding of what it is. They were ultimately trying to do other than to be seen and to be known. That works for some characters. That is in many ways, a fundamental characteristic of certain types of people. Let’s take Lex Luther for example. Everybody knows that the dude is really out to be seen as something greater than Superman. His defining goal his reason for being is to be the greatest, and this strange alien is standing in his way. So, what does he do? He tries to find a way to take this guy down. Again he has to fine by this. He is defined by his role as an antagonist. In some tellings, however he is also defined by those ones and needs that are purely human constraints. He has made more in these circumstances than just a two dimensional. I must kill the man of Steel kind of Character.

so this is where we get to the crux of it. I don’t want my characters to be flat. They have been very much so for a very, very long time. So the plan in my mind is to begin to tell stories about people again.