Genre Performing Arts. Page - 6

al stereotype, and all the history books have been altered to make it seem forever-so. I suppose it's an attempt to make things less confusing for children.

Of all the stories, the most inflated was the biography of Benjamin Franklin. I refused to believe that any one individual could be responsible for inventions ranging from the light-bulb to electricity to the concept of yellow. There had to be some distortion in there somewhere.

But as I sat alone in my bed, reading over all those great stories of all those great men, I couldn't help wonder... what were they like? How did they live? How close were they to the legends they inspired? The Founders- they had a whole mountain carved out in their image. What must a man do to earn that kind of respect?

A few hours later, I was back on Derry's doorstep. It was four in the morning. Getting her to answer the door was a challenge.

'Jesus, Jasie.' Her yawn was a roar. 'What do you want?'

'You were right.' I pushed into her flat with

buying mareridtbane for 800 gold per plant. His initial reccy had netted him five plants. That brought the total expected take from the dungeon up to 4,400 gold for 20 minutes, or 13,200 gold per hour -- which, at the day's exchange, was worth about $30, or 285 Renminbi.

Which was -- he thought for a second -- more than 71 bowls of dumplings.

Jackpot.

His hands flew over the mice, taking direct control over the squad. He'd work out the optimal path through the dungeon now, then head out to the Huoda internet cafe and see who he could find to do runs with him at this. With any luck, they could take -- his eyes rolled up as he thought again -- a million gold out of the dungeon if they could get the whole cafe working on it. They'd dump the gold as they went, and by the time Coca Cola's systems administrators figured out anything was wrong, they'd have pulled almost $3000 out of the game. That was a year's rent, for one night's work. His hands trembled as he flipp

ecrets.

After all, Theseus damn well was.

*

She'd taken us a good fifteen AUs towards our destination before something scared her off course. Then she'd skidded north like a startled cat and started climbing: a wild high three-gee burn off the ecliptic, thirteen hundred tonnes of momentum bucking against Newton's First. She'd emptied her Penn tanks, bled dry her substrate mass, squandered a hundred forty days' of fuel in hours. Then a long cold coast through the abyss, years of stingy accounting, the thrust of every antiproton weighed against the drag of sieving it from the void. Teleportation isn't magic: the Icarus stream couldn't send us the actual antimatter it made, only the quantum specs. Theseus had to filterfeed the raw material from space, one ion at a time. For long dark years she'd made do on pure inertia, hording every swallowed atom. Then a flip; ionizing lasers strafing the space ahead; a ramscoop thrown wide in a hard brake. The weight of a trillion trilli

parody of bacterial plasmid exchange, so fast that, by the time the windfall tax demands are served, the targets don't exist anymore, even though the same staff are working on the same software in the same Mumbai cubicle farms.

Welcome to the twenty-first century.

The permanent floating meatspace party Manfred is hooking up with is a strange attractor for some of the American exiles cluttering up the cities of Europe this decade - not trustafarians, but honest-to-God political dissidents, draft dodgers, and terminal outsourcing victims. It's the kind of place where weird connections are made and crossed lines make new short circuits into the future, like the street cafes of Switzerland where the pre Great War Russian exiles gathered. Right now it's located in the back of De Wildemann's, a three-hundred-year old brown cafe with a list of brews that runs to sixteen pages and wooden walls stained the color of stale beer. The air is thick with the smells of tobacco, brewer's yeast, and melatonin sp

he truth. Let me go, you don't understand what will happen. My brothers-"

The Lord Cleric punched her. Her head flew back and a spray of blood wet the dry mud and spattered over the leaves concealing me. Face wet with tears and whimpering, she tried to crawl toward the trees and dragged up clumps of earth with her fingernails.

"You must let me go." The words sounded muffled, like she had a mouthful of something foul.

The Lord Cleric executed a neat half turn and stamped on her thigh. There was a sharp snap, like I'd picked up a twig and yanked on the ends until the fibers split apart and cracked open. The fairy's leg buckled into an unnatural shape and she screamed. The sound was guttural, a direct translation of pain to sound. I slapped a hand over my mouth to smother my own shriek. Not because of the broken bone, I'd seen and heard tons of those, but because I'd caught the Lord Clerics profile and recognized the handsome face. The Lord Cleric dragged the fairy back into the centre of th

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A short monolouge following the story of a teenaged girl who has always viewed herself in a positive light, until one evening she recognizes who she has become. She decides to run away from her small town to the city with her two best friends, fueled by the hope of her new life- and a new reputation. However, her actions only solidify her role as the 'Bad Kid.'

its the year 1983 when rock n roll was at its powerfulest, Jack has a crush on the undercovercop thats only their becouse of a crime from two very dirty cops did that jack has witnessted, they must be stoped! in fear for his high school stoner life he must find a way to save the day, at the same time staying blazzed all day...     read and you can find out how FUNNY and how things work out for this bad boy.

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This is a testing book just to see if people want me to write, I love to write and if I get more than 40 reads/downloads I might continue if people still want me to write. Please leave your feedback in the comments.