minus196

Something was wrong inside. Broken.

She felt as if some part of her had torn loose, leaving only a sickening, unfamiliar ache in its place, like a ragdoll that had lost some vital bit of stuffing. The notion that she should be afraid skittered across her consciousness, but she couldn’t focus long enough to remember why. Thoughts were hard to come by in the thick blackness that surrounded her.

Blackness? She opened her eyes, and the darkness dissolved into a blurry shape, the indistinct outline of some sort of ball or balloon, streaked in red and white. Strange. Her eyes felt wet. Wondering if perhaps this was what made it difficult to see properly, she reached up to wipe the moisture from her eyes with the back of a shaky hand. The gesture seemed to help her vision clear a bit, and as she drew her hand away, she saw that it was covered in sticky crimson. She turned her attention back to the red and white balloon in front of her and watched as it resolved into the image a bloody airbag hanging half-deflated from the center of a steering wheel.

Awareness returned, and with an effort she lifted her head to peer over the airbag and through the shattered windshield. Steam rose from somewhere in between, obscuring her view, but she could make out the other car, resting at an odd angle just in front of her. Too close in front of her. Its smashed windshield sat where her own car’s hood should have been. She saw no sign of anyone inside.

A simple thought congealed in her mind. Out. I need to get out.

Reaching over to unfasten her seat belt, she felt surprised when nothing happened. Realizing that her left arm had not moved, she looked over to find out why and saw that the twisted metal of the door had almost enveloped her arm, pinning it against her body. Her left leg was hidden beneath the crumpled ruin of the dash.

The thought came again, more insistent this time, and underscored by a growing sense of panic. I need to get out. Taking a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and jerked her left arm in an effort to get free.

Someone screamed, a raw, viceral cry, as waves of electric agony washed across her, engulfing everything. The blackness returned.



The alarm sounded much too early, as it always did, obliterating the crystal serenity of the dream with its shrill and relentless assault. Reaching out and fumbling blindly, a hand managed to find the elusive button, and the harsh dissonance became a welcome, empty silence. By then the dream was already fading, though, its vivid images, sounds, and sensations reduced to a residue of vague contentment, which was in turn scrubbed away by the intruding awareness of a dull headache and the sun’s glare through the window, already too high in the sky. Within a few moments, all that remained from the dream was the familiar oval face of a young woman, pale and beautiful with piercing green eyes. She was smiling, with her head cocked just to one side so that her chocolate brown hair hung against a porcelain cheek on one side and spilled over a shoulder on the other. That all the rest had faded away was just as well. Some things that brought bliss during slumber only served to bring pain when carried over into the waking world. Besides, Bryce Day knew that the dream, or one like it, would return again soon enough.

As he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, the dull pressure in Bryce’s head became decidedly less dull. He paused there for a moment, sighing as he glanced over his shoulder at the form of the sleeping woman on the bed behind him. For a wonder, the alarm had not awakened her, and she lay on her stomach with her face turned toward him, half hidden by the long dark locks that fanned down onto the pillow. Katelynn had a beautiful face, even more stunning in slumber than awake. Its only only flaw was that it was not the face from the dream.

Bryce allowed his gaze to drift from her face and trail along the smooth, tan skin of her back and legs, interrupted only by the folds of the white sheet draped loosely across her hips. As he admired her, fragments of other more recent memories surfaced and receded in a chaotic procession. The roar of a car engine at full throttle. The pulse of loud music. The taste of hungry lips. Other things. Even though the race had ended around 1 AM, the party that followed had ended only a few hours ago, and his recollection of what had transpired was almost as disjointed as the vanished dream. Clearly, though, Katelynn had figured into things in a prominent way. And alcohol, let’s not forget, he thought, feeling as though his head weighed twice what it should. With a deep breath, he forced his mind to focus on the present, pushing dreams, memories, and last night’s indiscretions from his mind. He stood up with a silent yawn and laced his fingers together as he lifted his arms high over his head, stretching limbs and muscles that were already beginning to course with energy, despite the hangover. He needed to get moving. The first day of the fall semester was no day to be lazing around in bed, no matter the scenery behind him.

As apartments near the campus went, Bryce’s was fairly large, yet it still took him only a couple of groggy steps to reach his corner desk, a tangled clutter of books, scattered papers, and photonics. At his approach, the desk’s photoscreen flicked to life, a luminescent vertical projection which hovered in the air, emitted from the only remaining swath of the desk’s omnisurface that was not covered with clutter. Without bothering to sit down, Bryce leaned over with one hand on the desk and used the other to brush the hair out of his eyes so that he could force them to focus on the displayed results of the data scan he had initiated early the day before. Negative. Always negative. He’d been running the scans so long now that the result brought no disappointment – only confirmed expectations.

Finished with the computer for the moment, Bryce crept out of the bedroom and made his way down the hall toward the bathroom. As he passed, he noted that Stuart, his roommate, seemed to have already gone, and his bedroom door stood open with the bed sitting empty. Once inside the bathroom, he flipped on the light, touched the control surface to set the temperature readout in the shower to the maximum setting, and stepped in, adjusting the temperature back down just to the point of tolerability. Letting the heat of the water soak into his skin, he iterated through the routine of washing, shaving, rinsing, and drying while his thoughts focused on the day ahead.

His class schedule occupied the entire morning and most of the afternoon, beginning at 8:30 with Bioinformatics under Professor Fairchild. Since he was a junior this year, that class, along with most of the others on his schedule was dictated as a core requirement of his major in Developmental Neuroengineering. That, combined with the fact that he had finally managed to land a coveted internship in the SOMA lab during the afternoons meant that on most days this semester, from sun up to sun down, his entire world would consist primarily of the handful of buildings that made up the U.C. Everton biology department.

Wrapping a towel around his waist and stepping out of the shower, Bryce paused in front of the mirror to take stock of the reflection he saw framed there in a brief ritual that he wouldn’t have admitted to looking forward to every day. The appearance that greeted him was that of a young man of twenty years, slightly taller than average, with a lean, lightly muscled physique and light copper skin. A shock of bangs that verged on being too long puncutated his straight, sandy blond hair, and he pushed them to one side to keep them just above his sea green eyes. Strong cheekbones framed a slight smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the hint of a dimple accented his chin. As he took in the full measure of himself, an involuntary smile lifted one corner of his mouth, followed by a completely voluntary wink, and Bryce decided, not for the first time, that the overall package was more than satisfactory.

His sprits higher, he almost didn’t notice the hangover any longer as he wrapped things up in the bathroom and, taking care not to wake Katelynn, returned to the bedroom and slipped on a pair of brushed, synth-denim jeans along with a casual pair of low-cut brown leather shoes with composite soles. Then, since it was the last remaining clean item in the top dresser drawer – he was going to have to do laundry again tonight - he completed the outfit with a short-sleeved, snug-fitting shirt with subtle vertical ribbing - black alternating with gray - and a half collar in the current style. The front of the shirt was emblazoned in red with a stylistic print of the word DeNovo, the name of a vintage band from the 2060s whose music he had heard only occasionally, but who were tacitly regarded as one of the most acceptable in terms of fashion thematics.

Without a sound, Bryce made his way back to his desk and extracted his computer, an ultra-thin, pearl white piece of photonics the size and shape of an index card, from the pile of debris on top, easing it into his front pocket. As he did this, the computer registered the change and severed the connection to the desk’s projected photoscreen. The rectagular display that hung in the air faded away then, revealing the clutter on the back of the desk once again. Bryce then grabbed his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and with a last glance at Katelynn’s sleeping figure, he slipped out the front door.

The weather outside was already beautiful and sunny, with both sides of the street starting to fill with the pedestrian traffic of students jogging, walking to class, or strolling in conversation. The campus was only a couple of blocks away, and he had spent much of the previous night in his car anyway, so rather than drive, Bryce decided the walk would be a nice way to clear his head and headed west along the sidewalk that fronted his apartment. A steady stream of cars - sleek, silent, and spaced at exact intervals by their autonavs - made their way up and down the street as the passengers inside talked on the phone, ate, read books, or just looked out the windows. As the wavy ribbon of sidewalk took him past lush green lawns and wove around the trunks of the immense maples that lined the street, painting the sidewalk in dappled shade, he reached behind him and retrieved a pair of Ray-Bans from a pocket of his backpack. When he slipped them on, the oval lenses covered his eyes precisely and polarized from transparent to dark. A couple of decades back, they would have looked like any other pair of fashionable sunglasses, except that near the ends the earpieces forked with a thin extension that hovered just over each ear – stereo speakers. The computer in his pocket sensed the action and linked up with the display overlay embedded in the glasses, switching to personal assist mode. He was greeted by a readout displayed in the upper periphery of his field of view making it appear as if the subtle, translucent green letters hovered in the air a few feet in front of him as he walked:


Bryce let his gaze linger a moment on “New Messages,” blinking once – an eyeclick. The computer noted this, and the words expanded and morphed into a small window on the right side of his vision, showing his inbox. Scanning past the obvious junk messages, Bryce found a new entry from a sender called “DΛЯЖΘИ€.” He eyeclicked to open it, and the entry zoomed into a new window containing a couple of lines of text:

Got your message requesting a face-to-face today. I should be available - just need to know the when and the where…

J.

Bryce selected “Voice Reply,” and spoke into the air as he walked. “Sounds great,” he said. “I’ll have a little time after my 8:30 class is over, so how about Java 101 at 10:15? See you then.” A tiny microphone in the Ray-Bans recorded his words as he spoke, while the computer transcribed what he had said into text that would accompany the recording. He verified the transcription, eyeclicked the “Send” option, and scanned through the remaining messages.

Finding nothing else urgent, Bryce closed the inbox and let his attention shift back to his surroundings. The computer made a note of this, and the interface overlay faded away, leaving him with an unadulterated view. By this time, Bryce had covered the short walk to the campus, the apartments and residences that made up his neighborhood giving way to the residence halls, classroom buildings, and other facilities of the university. Like those of most schools that had evolved over a century or more, the structures comprising U.C Everton’s campus represented an organically eclectic mix of designs, styles, and sizes. The oldest buildings, from the time the university was founded, were retro-futuristic affairs of concrete in buffs and creams with flowing curves and ranks of inset windows with dark tinting, while the newest had an open, nearly transparent feel with conservatively fanciful designs reminiscent of gigantic glass origami. All of the buildings on campus, both the old and the new, were interconnected throughout by a network of broad plazas, shaded walks, and expansive lawns of emerald green. At the moment, the entire scene teemed with hundreds of students heading in all directions, like iron filings drawn by the slow churn of a magnetic field.

Flowing along with the crowd, Bryce had just passed the student union on his way toward the side of the campus that housed the college of science when he heard a digital chirp from his earphones accompanied by a message which flashed up on the display overlay inside the Ray Bans:

SocialNet: New voice chat request from Stuart Gallihugh.

Eyeclicking the message as he made his way through the press of pedestrians, Bryce was greeted by the image of his roommate’s SocialNet profile photo, showing a young man with dark, curly hair and blue eyes that seemed ready-made to go with the broad smile that he wore.

Continued in next post...

minus196

Continued from previous post...

“Do I dare say ‘Good morning?” Bryce asked by way of a greeting.

Stuart’s animated voice came through the earphones, “I don’t know about this morning, but last night was definitely good. I wonder if I might just get used to this racing scene of yours. Fun way to spend an evening, even if I do feel like hell today.” His parents had moved to the States from Dublin when he was a young boy, and his time there had left him with just the slightest trace of an Irish accent. A Neuro major like Bryce, they had met last year in one of Professor Stevenson’s classes, and it wasn’t long before they had arranged to get the apartment together.

“Well, you must have been up bright and early anyway,” Bryce observed. “Your bed was already empty by the time I managed to drag myself out of mine."

“Well, as to that point,” Stuart continued, “my bed was empty this morning, because I was never in it.”

The implication sank in. “I guess it really was a good night then,” Bryce said. “That blond girl you were with? What was her name?”

“Melissa. And it’s not what you think. I went over to her place after the race, yeah, but believe it or not, all we did was talk.”

“That’s all?” Bryce prodded.

“All night,” Stuart assured him. “About everything. She’s pre-med and wants to become a surgeon, and she digs the fact that I want to use my degree to work on curing neurodegenerative disorders. But we talked about all kinds of other stuff, too. Music. Sports. Philosophy. Eventually, we even moved on to important topics - like beer. She’s a lager girl, by the way.”

“Wow,” Bryce exclaimed. “Doesn’t she know that talking beer with an Irishman is tantamount to meeting his family or discussing how many kids he wants to have?”

“I know, right?” Stuart laughed. “Don’t think that it was all just heavy, important stuff, though. I mean, we even talked about you a little. She wanted to know why you race with that fossil fueled relic of yours.”

“Well, if you introduce me some time, I’d be happy to explain the some of the lost virtues of older technology to her.”

“Not on your life. Before I knew it, you’d probably be offering to give her a tour of the back seat,” Stuart teased. “Anyway, by the time we realized it was already four in the morning, it was too late for me to come back to the apartment, so I just crashed on her couch for a few hours. I’m sure it’ll catch up with me by lunch time.”

“Well. It seems like you two really do have a connection. That’s terrific. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulate yourself then. If you hadn’t dragged me along to play fanboy, it wouldn’t have happened. Melissa and I got to talking as we watched the heats, and once I worked it into the conversation that I was in tight with the guy in the old black car, she was in orbit. It probably didn’t hurt that you ended up practically leaving that poor other guy in another zip code on your last run, either.”

Stuart was being generous. He was the last guy in the world who needed any help in the girl department – he had good looks, an easy going, likeable personality, and he wasn’t afraid to turn on the full court, Irish accent press when it suited him. If Bryce’s success on the track last night had had any added impact, he thought it must have been minimal. Since it seemed to amuse Stuart, though, he played along anyway.

“I’m glad to see you giving credit where credit’s due. I know that sometimes it must be a little hard for you compete in my shadow.”

“Exactly. I mean, just look at that confident man-stroll. Even I can’t stop staring at you.”

The sunlit path Bryce followed had taken him close to the front of one of the science buildings as he passed by, and as Stuart said this, the sound of his voice took on the added timbre of a faint echo from front of the building while still coming through the earphones. Responding to the sound, Bryce turned around as he walked, backpedalling for a few steps. As he did so, the dark curly hair and blue eyes in Stuart’s photo, still displayed on the overlay, became superimposed on the face of the person approaching from behind in an almost perfect match. Stuart himself seemed to have spotted him from a distance and was hurrying to catch up. Bryce terminated the chat link, and Stuart’s photo faded away, leaving only the real Stuart, who fell in beside Bryce as the two continued down the walk.

“Not such a bad man-stroll yourself, whatever that is,” Bryce said. “I see you made it to the apartment to clean up. I’m surprised I missed you.” Stuart seemed to be embracing his heritage today. His gold shirt was of a style similar to Bryce’s, with short sleeves and a half collar, but rather than the trendy band, Stuart’s sported the symbol of the Superman logo in green with the “S” replaced by a shamrock.

“Well, I didn’t really want to make my first impressions in class today through the olfactory, so I just ran by for a change and a quick shower before I rode over. Which brings us to you, my friend” Stuart said as he gave Bryce a sidelong glance. “I had a brief exchange with a certain young woman who seems to have had a sleepover. Told her not to mind me and make herself at home.”

Bryce offered in his most nonchalant tone, “It’s no big deal. I had a brief exchange with her too.”

“I’m sure. Well, she’s definitely a looker, and she seemed nice enough, though I was a little rude I’m afraid. I had to run out again almost as soon as I got there, so I didn’t even manage to get her name. Assuming you actually remember it?” Stuart prompted.

“I’m hurt,” Bryce said, affecting a formal, wounded tone. “Your implication that I might not hold the deepest personal interest in, and respect for, each and every object of my physical affections is rather insulting. For your information, her name is Katelynn, she’s a Senior here at Everton, and she likes to play tennis,” Bryce said, struggling just to remember even those few details. “Maybe I could give her a call and see if she wants to play some doubles with you and Melissa some time.”

By way of a reply, Stuart darted in front of Bryce, putting an outstretched hand on his chest to bring him to a halt. He cocked his head to one side, peering at Bryce’s face as if reading his thoughts.

“What?” Bryce asked, rolling his eyes.

“What? We both know you have absolutely no intention of calling her is what,” Stuart said. “Too bad. Unless I miss my guess, this one may have been interested in something more than just a brief exchange.”

“How do you know I’m not going to call her?” Bryce countered.

“Because I know,” Stuart said. “I know you, that’s how I know. What was it this time? Too shallow? Talks too much? Too quiet? Parts her hair on the wrong side? What?”

At times Bryce couldn’t help but think that, though fun and interesting, perhaps he should have opted for a less perceptive roommate than Stuart. He could remember through last night’s haze just well enough to recall that, as the evening had worn on and he had gotten to know Katelynn a little, he had felt an old familiar buzz growing in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol or with pure physical attraction - the budding tingle of something more. His time with Katelynn had been enjoyable, as far as it went, but Stuart was right. There would be no future phone call.

“I don’t know,” Bryce lied. “I just don’t think I’d be right for her. I mean, for one thing, she’s studying to go into broadcast marketing. Can you see her dragging a science nerd like me around to parties full of polished product-placement types? I’d just be a social liability for her.”

“I see. So you’re shining her on to be considerate, then. Are you sure you’re not cut out for marketing?” Stuart smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Are we really going to talk about this all morning?” Bryce asked.

“Hey, no need to get touchy. I’m just trying to figure out why you always seem to find a reason to blow off the second date. I mean, I’ve seen the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, and you don’t seem like you fit the bill.”

Definitely too perceptive. He brushed past Stuart and continued down the walk, forcing him to follow or be left behind. Stuart hurried to catch up. “I don’t know what to tell you, Stuart. I’ll know what I’m looking for when I find it, and I just haven’t found it yet.”

“That’s cool, Bryce. I get it, but listen. As a friend, all I’m saying is that we’re not gonna be young forever, and you’re never gonna have more chances to find that keeper than right now. I mean, if you’re a little more discriminating or looking for something special, I can understand that, but maybe you should at least give ‘em a fighting chance to live up to expectations? Who knows? Maybe the perfect one will come along and surprise you when you least expect it.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Bryce thought.

J. T. Grunge

Hi Minus! I am nobody. John Q. Reader, if I may. I'm going to take a shot at critiquing your writing, but I am by no means an expert, so just take it for what it's worth -- a drop in the ocean of opinions. Here goes... scorll down and watch for bolded text. (I'm not the sophistocated techie type.)






Something was wrong inside. Broken.

She felt as if some part of her had torn loose, leaving only a sickening, unfamiliar ache in its place, like a ragdoll that had lost some vital bit of stuffing. The notion that she should be afraid skittered across her consciousness, but she couldn’t focus long enough to remember why. Thoughts were hard to come by in the thick blackness that surrounded her. I was looking for a name here, but I'm trying to be patient.

Blackness? She opened her eyes, and the darkness dissolved into a blurry shape, the indistinct outline of some sort of ball or balloon, streaked in red and white. Strange. Her eyes felt wet. Wondering if perhaps this was what made it difficult to see properly, she reached up to wipe the moisture from her eyes with the back of a shaky hand. The gesture seemed to help her vision clear a bit, and as she drew her hand away, she saw that it was covered in sticky crimson. She turned her attention back to the red and white balloon in front of her and watched as it resolved into the image a bloody airbag hanging half-deflated from the center of a steering wheel. Car crash, got it! I might cut out the "see properly and make it just plain old "see", and I would simplify the the sticky crimson to blood. Not that I'm trying to tell you how to write, but I'm starting to trip on the details. The red and white airbag is good. you never see the blood on the airbag in the movies. Why the heck not?

Awareness returned, and with an effort she lifted her head to peer over the airbag and through the shattered windshield. Steam rose from somewhere in between, obscuring her view, but she could make out the other car, resting at an odd angle just in front of her. Too close in front of her. Its smashed windshield sat where her own car’s hood should have been. She saw no sign of anyone inside.

A simple thought congealed It's a simple thought, but you followed it with a really big word. Congealed. that made me think of coagulated blood rather than a thought forming (I'm sorry, I'm really not trying to be mean. I'm just giving you a blow by blow of what I'm thinking as I read) in her mind. Out. I need to get out.

Reaching over to unfasten her seat belt, she felt surprised when nothing happened. Realizing that her left arm had not moved, she looked over to find out why and saw that the twisted metal of the door had almost enveloped her arm, pinning it against her body. Her left leg was hidden beneath the crumpled ruin of the dash.

The thought came again, more insistent this time, and underscored by a growing sense of panic. I need to get out. Taking a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and jerked her left arm in an effort to get free.

Someone screamed, a raw, viceral cry, as waves of electric agony washed across her, engulfing everything. The blackness returned.




The alarm sounded much too early, as it always did, obliterating the crystal serenity of the dream with its shrill and relentless assault. Reaching out and fumbling blindly, a hand managed to find the elusive button, and the harsh dissonance became a welcome, empty silence. By then the dream was already fading, though, its vivid images, sounds, and sensations reduced to a residue of vague contentment, which was in turn scrubbed away by the intruding awareness of a dull headache and the sun’s glare through the window, already too high in the sky. (That was a really long sentence. I had to go back and read it twice to follow it. don't make me work too hard)Within a few moments, all that remained from the dream was the familiar oval face of a young woman, pale and beautiful with piercing green eyes. She was smiling, with her head cocked just to one side so that her chocolate brown hair hung against a porcelain cheek on one side and spilled over a shoulder on the other. too much information. If you tell me step by step what I need to see you are squelching my natural assumptions of things that really don't matter that much. Let me fill in some of the descriptive blanks. That all the rest had faded away was just as well. Some things that brought bliss during slumber only served to bring pain when carried over into the waking world. Besides, Bryce Day knew that the dream, or one like it, would return again soon enough.

As he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, the dull pressure in Bryce’s head became decidedly less dull. He paused there for a moment, sighing as he glanced over his shoulder at the form of the sleeping woman on the bed behind him. For a wonder, the alarm had not awakened her, and she lay on her stomach with her face turned toward him, half hidden by the long dark locks that fanned down onto the pillow. Katelynn had a beautiful face, even more stunning in slumber than awake. Its only only flaw was that it was not the face from the dream.

Bryce allowed his gaze to drift from her face and trail along the smooth, tan skin of her back and legs, interrupted only by the folds of the white sheet draped loosely across her hips. As he admired her, fragments of other more recent memories surfaced and receded in a chaotic procession. The roar of a car engine at full throttle. The pulse of loud music. The taste of hungry lips. Nice, simple. Good. Other things. Even though the race had ended around 1 AM, the party that followed had ended only a few hours ago, and his recollection of what had transpired was almost as disjointed as the vanished dream. Clearly, though, Katelynn had figured into things in a prominent way. And alcohol, let’s not forget, he thought, feeling as though his head weighed twice what it should. With a deep breath, he forced his mind to focus on the present, pushing dreams, memories, and last night’s indiscretions from his mind. He stood up with a silent yawn and laced his fingers together as he lifted his arms high over his head, stretching limbs and muscles that were already beginning to course with energy, I don't believe you. despite the hangover. He needed to get moving. The first day of the fall semester was no day to be lazing around in bed, no matter the scenery behind him.

As apartments near the campus went, Bryce’s was fairly large, yet it still took him only a couple of groggy steps to reach his corner desk, a tangled clutter of books, scattered papers, and photonics. At his approach, the desk’s photoscreen flicked to life, a luminescent vertical projection which hovered in the air, emitted from the only remaining swath of the desk’s omnisurface that was not covered with clutter. Without bothering to sit down, Bryce leaned over with one hand on the desk and used the other to brush the hair out of his eyes so that he could force them to focus on the displayed results of the data scan he had initiated early the day before. Negative. Always negative. He’d been running the scans so long now that the result brought no disappointment – only confirmed expectations.

Finished with the computer for the moment, Bryce crept out of the bedroom and made his way down the hall toward the bathroom. As he passed, he noted that Stuart, his roommate, seemed to have already gone, and his bedroom door stood open with the bed sitting empty. Once inside the bathroom, he flipped on the light, touched the control surface to set the temperature readout in the shower to the maximum setting, and stepped in, adjusting the temperature back down just to the point of tolerability. Letting the heat of the water soak into his skin, he iterated through the routine of washing, shaving, rinsing, and drying while his thoughts focused on the day ahead I dont need so many details here.

His class schedule occupied the entire morning and most of the afternoon, beginning at 8:30 with Bioinformatics under Professor Fairchild. Since he was a junior this year, that class, along with most of the others on his schedule was dictated as a core requirement of his major in Developmental Neuroengineering. That, combined with the fact that he had finally managed to land a coveted internship in the SOMA lab during the afternoons meant that on most days this semester, from sun up to sun down, his entire world would consist primarily of the handful of buildings that made up the U.C. Everton biology department.

Wrapping a towel around his waist and stepping out of the shower, Bryce paused in front of the mirror to take stock of the reflection he saw framed there in a brief ritual that he wouldn’t have admitted to looking forward to every day. The appearance that greeted him was that of a young man of twenty years, slightly taller than average, with a lean, lightly muscled physique and light copper skin. A shock of bangs that verged on being too long puncutated his straight, sandy blond hair, and he pushed them to one side to keep them just above his sea green eyes. Strong cheekbones framed a slight smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the hint of a dimple accented his chin. As he took in the full measure of himself, an involuntary smile lifted one corner of his mouth, followed by a completely voluntary wink, and Bryce decided, not for the first time, that the overall package was more than satisfactory I'm really not liking this guy. He seems a bit stuck on himself, so if that's what you're aiming for...well done. He's a jerk..

His sprits higher, he almost didn’t notice the hangover any longer I still dont believe you as he wrapped things up in the bathroom and, taking care not to wake Katelynn, returned to the bedroom and slipped on a pair of brushed, synth-denim jeans along with a casual pair of low-cut brown leather shoes with composite soles too many details on the clothes. Then, since it was the last remaining clean item in the top dresser drawer – he was going to have to do laundry again tonight - he completed the outfit with a short-sleeved, snug-fitting shirt with subtle vertical ribbing - black alternating with gray - and a half collar in the current style and more details about the clothes. The front of the shirt was emblazoned in red with a stylistic print of the word DeNovo, the name of a vintage band from the 2060s whose music he had heard only occasionally, but who were tacitly regarded as one of the most acceptable in terms of fashion thematics.

Without a sound, Bryce made his way back to his desk and extracted his computer, an ultra-thin, pearl white piece of photonics the size and shape of an index card if it is the size and shape of an index card you don't need to also tell me that it's ultra thin, from the pile of debris on top, easing it into his front pocket. As he did this, the computer registered the change and severed the connection to the desk’s projected photoscreen. The rectagular display that hung in the air faded away then, revealing the clutter on the back of the desk once again. Bryce then grabbed his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and with a last glance at Katelynn’s sleeping figure, he slipped out the front door.

The weather outside was already beautiful and sunny, with both sides of the street starting to fill with the pedestrian traffic of students jogging, walking to class, or strolling in conversation. The campus was only a couple of blocks away, and he had spent much of the previous night in his car anyway, so rather than drive, Bryce decided the walk would be a nice way to clear his head and headed west along the sidewalk that fronted his apartment. A steady stream of cars - sleek, silent, and spaced at exact intervals by their autonavs - made their way up and down the street as the passengers inside talked on the phone, ate, read books, or just looked out the windows too many details. I know you want me to see this but you are really spoon feeding me. I think you should just skip the passengers all together. I'm not going to think the cars are empty and the information on what these folks are doing probably has no bearing on the story.. As the wavy ribbon of sidewalk took him past lush green lawns and wove around the trunks of the immense maples that lined the street, painting the sidewalk in dappled shade, he reached behind him and retrieved a pair of Ray-Bans from a pocket of his backpack. When he slipped them on, the oval lenses covered his eyes precisely and polarized from transparent to dark. A couple of decades back, they would have looked like any other pair of fashionable sunglasses, except that near the ends the earpieces forked with a thin extension that hovered just over each ear – stereo speakers. The computer in his pocket sensed the action and linked up with the display overlay embedded in the glasses, switching to personal assist mode. He was greeted by a readout displayed in the upper periphery of his field of view making it appear as if the subtle, translucent green letters hovered in the air a few feet in front of him as he walked:



















Bryce let his gaze linger a moment on “New Messages,” blinking once – an eyeclick. The computer noted this, and the words expanded and morphed into a small window on the right side of his vision, showing his inbox. I like the glasses. Cool idea. Scanning past the obvious junk messages, Bryce found a new entry from a sender called “DΛЯЖΘИ€.” He eyeclicked to open it, and the entry zoomed into a new window containing a couple of lines of text:

Got your message requesting a face-to-face today. I should be available - just need to know the when and the where… good. believeable

J.

Bryce selected “Voice Reply,” and spoke into the air as he walked. “Sounds great,” he said. “I’ll have a little time after my 8:30 class is over, so how about Java 101 at 10:15? See you then.” A tiny microphone in the Ray-Bans recorded his words as he spoke, while the computer transcribed what he had said into text that would accompany the recording. He verified the transcription, eyeclicked the “Send” option, and scanned through the remaining messages.

Finding nothing else urgent, Bryce closed the inbox and let his attention shift back to his surroundings. The computer made a note of this, and the interface overlay faded away, leaving him with an unadulterated view. By this time, Bryce had covered the short walk to the campus, the apartments and residences that made up his neighborhood giving way to the residence halls, classroom buildings, and other facilities of the university too much information. Like those of most schools that had evolved over a century or more, the structures comprising U.C Everton’s campus represented an organically eclectic mix of designs, styles, and sizes. The oldest buildings, from the time the university was founded, were retro-futuristic affairs of concrete in buffs and creams with flowing curves and ranks of inset windows with dark tinting, while the newest had an open, nearly transparent feel with conservatively fanciful designs reminiscent of gigantic glass origami a lot of big words and details that I couldn't help skimmimg over.. All of the buildings on campus, both the old and the new, were interconnected throughout by a network of broad plazas, shaded walks, and expansive lawns of emerald green. At the moment, the entire scene teemed with hundreds of students heading in all directions, like iron filings drawn by the slow churn of a magnetic field.

Flowing along with the crowd, Bryce had just passed the student union on his way toward the side of the campus that housed the college of science when he heard a digital chirp from his earphones accompanied by a message which flashed up on the display overlay inside the Ray Bans:

SocialNet: New voice chat request from Stuart Gallihugh.

Eyeclicking the message as he made his way through the press of pedestrians, Bryce was greeted by the image of his roommate’s SocialNet profile photo, showing a young man with dark, curly hair and blue eyes that seemed ready-made to go with the broad smile that he wore.

Continued in next post...[/quote]

Response to be continued...

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J. T. Grunge

“Do I dare say ‘Good morning?” Bryce asked by way of a greeting.

Stuart’s animated voice came through the earphones, “I don’t know about this morning, but last night was definitely good. I wonder if I might just get used to this racing scene of yours. Fun way to spend an evening, even if I do feel like hell today.” His parents had moved to the States from Dublin when he was a young boy, and his time there had left him with just the slightest trace of an Irish accent. A Neuro major like Bryce, they had met last year in one of Professor Stevenson’s classes, and it wasn’t long before they had arranged to get the apartment together.

“Well, you must have been up bright and early anyway,” Bryce observed.

“Your bed was already empty by the time I managed to drag myself out of mine."

“Well, as to that point,” Stuart continued, “my bed was empty this morning, because I was never in it.”

The implication sank in. “I guess it really was a good night then,” Bryce said. “That blond girl you were with? What was her name?”

“Melissa. And it’s not what you think. I went over to her place after the race, yeah, but believe it or not, all we did was talk.”

“That’s all?” Bryce prodded.

“All night,” Stuart assured him. “About everything. She’s pre-med and wants to become a surgeon, and she digs the fact that I want to use my degree to work on curing neurodegenerative disorders. But we talked about all kinds of other stuff, too. Music. Sports. Philosophy. Eventually, we even moved on to important topics - like beer. She’s a lager girl, by the way.”

“Wow,” Bryce exclaimed. “Doesn’t she know that talking beer with an Irishman is tantamount to meeting his family or discussing how many kids he wants to have?”

“I know, right?” Good Stuart laughed. “Don’t think that it was all just heavy, important stuff, though. I mean, we even talked about you a little. She wanted to know why you race with that fossil fueled relic of yours.”

“Well, if you introduce me some time, I’d be happy to explain the some of the lost virtues of older technology to her.”

“Not on your life. Before I knew it, you’d probably be offering to give her a tour of the back seat,” Stuart teased. “Anyway, by the time we realized it was already four in the morning, it was too late for me to come back to the apartment, so I just crashed on her couch for a few hours. I’m sure it’ll catch up with me by lunch time.”

“Well. It seems like you two really do have a connection. That’s terrific. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulate yourself then. If you hadn’t dragged me along to play fanboy, it wouldn’t have happened. Melissa and I got to talking as we watched the heats, and once I worked it into the conversation that I was in tight with the guy in the old black car, she was in orbit. It probably didn’t hurt that you ended up practically leaving that poor other guy in another zip code on your last run, either.”

Stuart was being generous. He was the last guy in the world who needed any help in the girl department – he had good looks, an easy going, likeable personality, and he wasn’t afraid to turn on the full court, Irish accent press when it suited him. If Bryce’s success on the track last night had had any added impact, he thought it must have been minimal. Since it seemed to amuse Stuart, though, he played along anyway.

“I’m glad to see you giving credit where credit’s due. I know that sometimes it must be a little hard for you compete in my shadow.”

“Exactly. I mean, just look at that confident man-stroll. Even I can’t stop staring at you.” I've lost track of who's saying what so I'm going to scroll back and re-read...
Nope, still not sure, but these guys are practically the same not counting the accent, so as a reader I guess I don't really care. Make me care.

The sunlit path Bryce followed had taken him close to the front of one of the science buildings as he passed by, and as Stuart said this, the sound of his voice took on the added timbre of a faint echo from front of the building while still coming through the earphones. That last sentence is too complex. I think I got too far away from the dialogue before you brought me back to it so i had to go back and read the precedeing dialogue again...which just reinforced my ill feelings towards the charater(s) Responding to the sound, Bryce turned around as he walked, backpedalling for a few steps. As he did so, the dark curly hair and blue eyes in Stuart’s photo, still displayed on the overlay, (I must have missed that the first time...am I skimming...) became superimposed on the face of the person approaching from behind in an almost perfect match. Stuart himself seemed to have spotted him from a distance and was hurrying to catch up. Bryce terminated the chat link, and Stuart’s photo faded away, leaving only the real Stuart, who fell in beside Bryce as the two continued down the walk.

“Not such a bad man-stroll yourself, whatever that is,” Bryce said. “I see you made it to the apartment to clean up. I’m surprised I missed you.” Stuart seemed to be embracing his heritage today. His gold shirt was of a style similar to Bryce’s, with short sleeves and a half collar, but rather than the trendy band, Stuart’s sported the symbol of the Superman logo in green with the “S” replaced by a shamrock.

“Well, I didn’t really want to make my first impressions in class today through the olfactory, so I just ran by for a change and a quick shower before I rode over. Which brings us to you, my friend” Stuart said as he gave Bryce a sidelong glance. “I had a brief exchange with a certain young woman who seems to have had a sleepover. Told her not to mind me and make herself at home.”

Bryce offered in his most nonchalant tone, “It’s no big deal. I had a brief exchange with her too.”

“I’m sure. Well, she’s definitely a looker, and she seemed nice enough, though I was a little rude I’m afraid. I had to run out again almost as soon as I got there, so I didn’t even manage to get her name. Assuming you actually remember it?” Stuart prompted.

“I’m hurt,” Bryce said, affecting a formal, wounded tone. “Your implication that I might not hold the deepest personal interest in, and respect for, each and every object of my physical affections is rather insulting. For your information, her name is Katelynn, she’s a Senior here at Everton, and she likes to play tennis,” Bryce said, struggling just to remember even those few details. “Maybe I could give her a call and see if she wants to play some doubles with you and Melissa some time.”

By way of a reply, Stuart darted in front of Bryce, putting an outstretched hand on his chest to bring him to a halt. He cocked his head didn't someone just cock their head earlier? This repeated detail stands out to me and it really shouldn't. to one side, peering at Bryce’s face as if reading his thoughts.

“What?” Bryce asked, rolling his eyes.

“What? We both know you have absolutely no intention of calling her is what,” Stuart said. “Too bad. Unless I miss my guess, this one may have been interested in something more than just a brief exchange.”

“How do you know I’m not going to call her?” Bryce countered.

“Because I know,” Stuart said. “I know you, that’s how I know. What was it this time? Too shallow? Talks too much? Too quiet? Parts her hair on the wrong side? What?”

At times Bryce couldn’t help but think that, though fun and interesting, perhaps he should have opted for a less perceptive roommate than Stuart. He could remember through last night’s haze just well enough to recall that, as the evening had worn on and he had gotten to know Katelynn a little, he had felt an old familiar buzz growing in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol or with pure physical attraction - the budding tingle of something more. His time with Katelynn had been enjoyable, as far as it went, but Stuart was right. There would be no future phone call. you're really making this man/pig quite the man/pig.

“I don’t know,” Bryce lied. “I just don’t think I’d be right for her. I mean, for one thing, she’s studying to go into broadcast marketing. Can you see her dragging a science nerd like me around to parties full of polished product-placement types? I’d just be a social liability for her.”

“I see. So you’re shining her on to be considerate, then. Are you sure you’re not cut out for marketing?” Stuart smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Are we really going to talk about this all morning?” Bryce asked.

“Hey, no need to get touchy. I’m just trying to figure out why you always seem to find a reason to blow off the second date. I mean, I’ve seen the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, and you don’t seem like you fit the bill.”

Definitely too perceptive. He brushed past Stuart and continued down the walk, forcing him to follow or be left behind. Stuart hurried to catch up. “I don’t know what to tell you, Stuart. I’ll know what I’m looking for when I find it, and I just haven’t found it yet.”

“That’s cool, Bryce. I get it, but listen. As a friend, all I’m saying is that we’re not gonna be young forever, and you’re never gonna have more chances to find that keeper than right now. I mean, if you’re a little more discriminating or looking for something special, I can understand that, but maybe you should at least give ‘em a fighting chance to live up to expectations? Who knows? Maybe the perfect one will come along and surprise you when you least expect it.” a little sappy but it will do

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Bryce thought.

Okay, so for a summary of my thoughts...
You've pegged the man/pig and I totally don't like him. I find the technical aspects interesting. I like gadgets. I think perhaps some of the paragraphs are rather lengthy, this because you have given me so much unnecessary detail and big words for me to trip over. I don't really have a sense for what the story is going to be about but my best guess would be...man/pig meets the man of his dreams and hopefully becomes much less of a man/pig. With subplots catering to sci-fi themes... Love story/sci-fi/action.

I hope I wasn't too brutal. It's not bad, just a little cumbersome.

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minus196

J.T.,

Thanks for taking the time to read through and give some feedback. I didn't find it to be brutal at all. It was concise and constructive.

I posted this in one other forum and the common feedback has been that I do need to cut out details in the first half of this, prior to the dialogue, so that will certainly be something I'll work on.

Your impressions of Bryce as a man/pig are intentional, though your reaction is a little stronger than I'd like, so I may have to back off a bit and make him slightly less repulsive. As you predict, though, he will get better eventually.

I was surprised to see you predicting that he'd turn out to be gay, but if you're puzzling over why he won't commit to any women, I suppose that's one possibility that people are going to consider. This is a big part of the story and will be cleared up later, but he's not gay...

I was pleased to see that you didn't believe he could recover from his hangover so quickly, too. This is intentional, and there's a reason, so this is good.

And hopefully I've gotten the tone and implicit promises I'm making right since you're correct about the general direction the story will take.

Once again, thanks! Loved the feedback.

Kerry

J. T. Grunge

Oh sorry! that was a total 'Whoops!' on my part. I meant to say woman of his dreams. I did get that. the woman in the car crash. I tend to proof read after I hit submit...missed that part. LOL

There's one more thing I want to mention that I was thinking about while I was off-line...yes, I'm still mulling it over.

Watch out for the dreaded list. You gave me one with the people in the cars... something like, reading, talking on phones, doing homework, putting make-up on and lots of other things. there was another list. Shower scene. Those lists read like a cop out. I have that same desire to list things. I want my rooms to be full of intersting things and I start writing the dreaded list. But that list of things really doesn't carry much weight. If you aren't going to give something a moment in the spotlight be selective about whether you really need to mention it.

I want to make sure my characters eat three times a day, bathe and go to bed on time. but in reality no one really cares. readers expect these things to happen whether you write them or not. I don't have to write that someone uses the bathroom...we all know at some point it happens..but not knowing when doesn't hurt anything. Some description of actions is necessary to move the story along...and it's okay that your guy hops in the shower, but you don't have to account for everything he does while he's in there...

Thank for makin my first critique here a comfortable discussion. I'll admit, I was very afraid to say too much.

and thanks for letting me read your work!

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