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ReroutedAnother seventy-two characters, another seventy-two grand. Each and every keystroke only lead the conductor of cybernetic calamity towards greater archives of digital riches and rewards. Tap-tap-tap and up went an idle copy of a firewall’s coding, a program completely identical to the original, but with so many more wounds to open. A simple six-digit code and one could take an electric vacuum to the account and drag away every cent they could find. Just a single perk that came with the ever-rewarding occupation of cyber-smuggler.Rerouted by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
And today? Today had been an absolutely prodigious day for cyber-smuggling. Late Saturday had arrived early, coming ‘round the clock at a record time of 4:45. By the time the global alarms went off, every man-operated cyber-surveillance system had been dropped in favor of the raising of glasses and the imbibing of the night. Entire ethereal warehouses of nothing but bank accounts, shipping routes, shareholder stocks and top-secret information block
Playing with a WallYou ever tried playing tennis against a brick wall?Playing with a Wall by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
It's about as time wasting as an MMO, MMO being
My meaningless opposition against a green-plastered plate
And a three line smile. No pick up games are played with
A brick wall. No games, set, matches; nothing. Just a yellow
Meteor pounding and pounding away at the surface of a planetoid.
I usually go until I'm bored, at which point I wonder
Where to go. And so I decide to go back to the wall.
The Box, His HomeThe alley by the wharf is the most he can afford.The Box, His Home by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
His complex was demolished, and his colleague has departed.
The scent of fish wrestles with the stench of rubbish,
Both slowly yielding to the odor of other vagrants.
He seeks residence for the night, and many more to come.
A steel-lid garbage can, his eye singles out.
A clan of flies storms the entrance, rust crowding
At the base, stragglers splitting and rising towards
The shade of an awning keeping dry
The butcher's order of beef for that day.
Before a step forward is made, a thief
Makes off with his prize.
This territory has already been claimed.
An old wooden box sits lonely at the corner.
The street adjacent is soaked with
The midnight tides of the fishermen's' journeys.
A corner has been splintered the wood reeks of rot.
He chooses the crate, thinking as it creaks
That it's worn and it's ruined, but it's better than nothing.
LPTW: The PuzzlemasterHe sat in his seat upturned, nestling himself between the violet seat grand throne he had created. He certainly hadn’t intended to sit in such a manner. He’d unfortunately gotten a bit carried away with his placement of the other furniture in the room, staking chairs and tables one on top of the other to create spires upon which sat a a collection of biographies interrogating a company of fiction (the tomes most likely convicted of sedition or false pretense). Most of the fiction was contained in the bastille of the tower, their rooms separated and varied to prevent escape or suicide. The history had been ordered to remain perched upon the edges of the lower scaffolding; surveillance was much less difficult if one could catch the culprits during the act.LPTW: The Puzzlemaster by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
But by the time the tower was complete, Brink had come to the late conclusion that, in his raptness, he had accidentally built his tower in such a way that his tomes of choice only fitted in their respective slots and posts
The Magician - PrologueThe bar stinks of stale cigar smoke and spilt alcohol. The light is dim, barely scattering dull yellow flickers on the grimy walls as tinny melodies from the jukebox mingle with hushed dealings and growled threats. It's not a nice place, but it's not a bad place. It's even a good place for those who know the comforting arms of the gloom.
There's a man at a table, black hair and heavy coat blending in with the backdrop, one who has spent the last half-decade dancing in the shadows of Europe. He's like an artist in his own way, one who works with the whims and frailties of human greed rather than the paints or the clay. But rumour has it now that he's leaving, melting away. Which is what brings the other man.
The second man, pale, flits at the counter, barely a spectre in the murk. He doesn't belong, comes almost close, but doesn't. He stands on the other side of the scene, after instead of with. And he's after that first man there, before it's too late, because it's been too long alr
RhythmbreakerOn the first day of school I rode the bus with all the other children from my town
There was a rhythm on that bus. The driver would drive to the next neighborhood and stop near a kid's house. The student would then say goodbye to her friends and calmly walk home. It was a constant rhythm. Drive, stop, walk. Drive, stop, walk.
There was a little boy on that bus, no older than nine, who would always break that rhythm. The bus would stop, and he would leave without saying a word to anyone. The moment his feet touched the pavement though, he would run as if the devil himself were on his heels.
Every day as the bus pulled out, I would watch the boy run. One day, I caught a glimpse of his face. He didn't have the gleeful face of a child caught up in the vision of how he would spend his next hours of freedom, as I expected. Instead, he set his jaw in determination and anger and maybe even a little bit of fear. He didn't run like most children; he ran with mission.
As the months went by, the l
The knife dragged down her spine, pressure being applied; enough to make her scream out in pain, but not hard enough to pierce through the skin. If it was to be dug into the skin, the one behind the knife, the one who was wielding it, wouldn't be able to gain control. Wouldn't be able to stop from digging it so deep, it would kill her. A smirk formed on the lips of the holder, just playing on the lips like it was no one's business. Slowly, the knife was dragged away from the young girls back, she struggled against the ropes that had her bound to the bed in the strange house as the psycho laughed loudly, the evil cackle filling the room and taking away her breath. She screamed again, tears leaking out of her eyes and flooding down her soft cheeks. The person slowly turned the girls head to face her, though she couldn't look into the eyes of the monster, not only because her vision was blurry, but because the person had a dark black hoodie on. Slowly, the dark black figure dug its nails