Lit-Mech

Spock sat quietly in his office, reading a essay for one of his classes. 12:13 p.m., he was eating his lunch of fruit and a bowl of soup he brought from home, when his com lit up with a request for video message. Sender: Hudson Academy. The words were surprising. The children attended there, and while he had received numerous messages from them in the past, they were never live feed. Updates on school programs, ‘fun’ fairs, field trips. Never live feeds. “Accept,” He set his lunch aside, well out of view of the screen. The message loaded and he was faced with a woman with wide brown eyes and blond hair tied up in a

“You’re staring at me.” James blinked once, lifting his eyes slowly to peer up into the endless brown of Spock’s unwavering, unimpressed stare. “No, I’m staring at space, and you so happen to be occupying it.” “A flimsy lie.” “I’m not lying, it’s a fact. You’re occupying a piece of space I so happened to be staring at.” There was a moment of silence. “Shall I return to my designated piece of space?” “Please? It’s incredibly boring without you occupying it.” “Yes Captain.”

It was a quiet, dark bar in the corner of no where street, between Alone and Simplicity. A nice place to be, Joe had decided this long ago through a very thorough conversation with himself that involved such vivid gesticulations that people passing him on the sidewalk almost paid attention to him. Most of them stemmed from the fact that he really, really should go home. He had scripts to memorize, and cues to think about, and coffee grounds to clean out. His cat was probably yowling annoyingly at the window sill for food he really didn't need, and his laundry would probably be stale when he finally got himself home, but that was okay. He coul

New York was like Grand Central Station for a lot of the American-side Dreamworks to meet. It was always abuzz with the underground trafficking, a type of hidden hub of the world were many of the Best in the Business men (and women) could be contacted. Someone always had an apartment there, a flat, a studio, a hotel room--something, at any given time. And most of the time none of these residences were occupied because everyone knew everyone else had them. Decided I'd occupy mine. The flat's a good size, the Easternmost wall is completely paneled glass. It's a modest flat, a loft big enough for my bed and a dresser. The rest is a kitchen tuck

It all started with an alley. With a boy, an alley, and a stray tennis ball. Your father tells you you're a disgrace. A sin to God, a regret to your parents and a shame to the family name. You're useless, you're stupid, you get your act together right now, Mr. before I beat some sense into you. You flinch, you stare, you turn away. All the blood rushes to your cheeks, are you mad? Are you angry? Embarrassed? Ashamed? Maybe, maybe not. He doesn't touch you. He just jams his hand into the thick mess of salt and pepper atop his head and turns away. You're dismissed like a servant, like you're not worth his time anymore. Just before you pull the