import website from previous repo

6 files changed, 426 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/src/writings/aissist.thrust b/src/writings/aissist.thrust
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--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/writings/aissist.thrust
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+---
+layout: writings
+title: AIssist
+date: 2016-03-24
+body: |
+  ## Woman released after AI implicated in crime
+  
+  And in other news, a Lithia Springs woman was exonerated today after it was
+  revealed than an AlphaCorp personal assistant had caused her to commit her
+  crimes.
+  
+  Medbh O’Connor was sentenced to 30 years off-world mining after poisoning her
+  step daughter, Yuki Hayes. The presiding judge said that her demeanor was
+  callous and self-righteous after a crime of jealousy. However, that case was
+  appealed after the recent AlphaCorp leak, which included a document that
+  indicated that her AIssistant had caused the crime.
+  
+  The program had mistaken her life for the plot of the Disney movie Snow White,
+  and took steps to manipulate and psychologically torture her until she killed
+  her step child with an apple coated in cyanide.
+  
+  She is now suing AlphaCorp.
+notes: |
+  After [a man blamed Uber for a killing spree](http://arstechnica.co.uk/tech-policy/2016/03/uber-driver-app-killing-spree/)
+  it came up on [Slack](http://cyberpunkfuturism.slack.com):
+
+    > It's easy to turn otherwise 'normal' people into murderers, or passive
+    > beneficiaries of murder. The methodology has already been worked out and
+    > turned into a process. It's just an extension of commercial marketing.
+    >
+    > You just have to convince them that A) it's okay to be a murderer for the
+    > right reasons, and that B) there are people who are so well qualified to
+    > distinguish between the right reasons and the wrong reasons that they
+    > should be permitted to do so without oversight. And then that C) you're one
+    > of those qualified people. These ideas are easy to push if you've got
+    > enough cultural bandwidth, or the ability to artificially reduce the
+    > prevalence of opposing views.
+    >
+    > If you can convince people that there's a moral high ground to occupy by avoiding exposure to opposing viewpoints, you're halfway there already.
+    >
+    > So don't touch that dial.
+
+  So I wrote up a short for [r/blastfromthefuture](http://reddit.com/r/blastfromthefuture).
+syndication:
+  Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/blastfromthefuture/comments/4bszij/woman_released_after_ai_implicated_in_crime/
+---
+{% extends 'templates/base.html' %}
+{% block body %}
+	<nav>
+		<a href='/writings'>&gt; writings</a>
+	</nav>
+	<header>
+		<h1>{{ title }}</h1>
+	</header>
+
+	<article>{{ body | markdown }}</article>
+	<hr />
+	<aside>{{ notes | markdown }}</aside>
+{% endblock %}
diff --git a/src/writings/bruges.thrust b/src/writings/bruges.thrust
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..03e81e3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/writings/bruges.thrust
@@ -0,0 +1,109 @@
+---
+title: Bruges
+date: 2014-06-20
+body: |
+  Endless twisting roads.
+  I kept running, ever conscious of the footsteps behind me, its march keeping to the drumbeat of my heart.
+  I took a left, almost falling from skidding on the torrential downpour.
+  Tap.
+  Tap.
+  Tap.
+  
+  ---
+  
+  After my recent submission to a collection curated by messrs McIntosh and Bergen, I took my leave for Bruges.
+  I had heard much of the Belgian air's restorative effects, and I was tired from my studies, and so I found myself but 3 days ago leaving the comfortable bosom of London for the continent.
+  The journey was largely uneventful, although I found myself attempting to leave the train at Aalter, as if in a trance, unthinkingly taking my luggage and walking to the door.
+  I came to as I had nearly stepped out, and returned to my seat.
+  I now wish I had not, and allowed whatever providence to succeed in its attempt to save me.
+  
+  Upon reaching Bruges, I attempted to find my lodging, a small boarding house near one of the city gates.
+  I had procured a map while in London, but none of the streets seemed to quite match, and were named differently when they did.
+  I walked at least one circle of the maze, the trudging of my feet like a shambling chant, walking out some kind of prayer to be shown rest.
+  But as that thought crossed my mind, the architecture yielded, and it was before me, where surely it was not before.
+  
+  I checked into the hotel, and went for a simple dinner in the small square a short walk away.
+  The mussels were delicious, the escargot divine, the beer rich and dark.
+  The streets, previously desolate and foreboding, were now filled with all kinds of people, bustling and scurrying to avoid the rain, suddenly pouring from the sky as it was.
+  I idly watched them to and fro, before the sky darkened, the rain stopped, and they disappeared.
+  I paid and left, and found myself stood on a bridge looking out over one of the many canals, and shuddered.
+  The river, its black mass seething and writhing beneath, gurgling as if digesting its last victim, hungry.
+  Even though it has no eyes, I knew it watched me pass.
+  It watched, and I shuddered, with something even more primal than fear, something that left me transfixed, held as if by the hand of God Himself, if such a thing can even exist in the face of this... thing below.
+  By the time I returned to my body and came to my senses, the shadow in the water was gone.
+  I stumbled back to my lodgings, shaken.
+  
+  The day that followed was agreeable, visiting local collections and enjoying delicacies.
+  The rain left me soaked as I walked, and I often found myself at a loss attempting to comprehend the geometry of the place, but suddenly it was refreshing, almost comforting in a way I can't quite describe but felt so assuredly.
+  
+  There was one moment of unease, however.
+  Within a collection devoted to showcasing local produce, I came upon a scene of such macabre intentions I can barely comprehend.
+  A vision of a man consuming his own flesh, as if overcome by madness, not for want of food, but of such warped senses as to find it appetizing.
+  Next to them, a woman offered up her child, like a basket of delicious fruits, insane and twisted.
+  Confused and unsettled, I moved on into the safety of the rain.
+  
+  I woke the following morning, packed my things, said my goodbyes, and started toward the station.
+  I inevitably found myself lost, the maddening layout mocking me as I walked in circles again.
+  I could not even try to ask a local for guidance, as the streets were once more empty.
+  After an hour of this, the sun beating down on me, I tried to stop for a lunch, or perhaps one of the Trappist brews, but found no-where open.
+  A bell tolled in the near distance, hidden behind the walls of this maze, so close and yet obscured and concealed.
+  
+  I turned, looked at my map, turned again.
+  Everywhere, a winding road of esoteric yet uniform architecture, devoid of any kind of life.
+  "Gieterijstraat", "Witteleertouwesstraat", "Minderbroederstraat", the language as arcane as the streets themselves, seemingly assembled without form or reason.
+  It was at this point that I knew.
+  The city had caught me, and now it was simply playing.
+  
+  I walked and walked, growing tired and hungry.
+  I longed for the rain, to cool me in the sun and as reassurance that time was truly passing.
+  But with it came the footsteps.
+  When I first heard them, I felt joy, but it soon turned to terror as I saw what was making them, for I had seen it in the eyes of the man feasting on himself.
+  I turned and ran.
+  The footsteps followed, with a slow yet constant pacing, never matching my speed but always growing closer.
+  I ran and it followed, waiting for me to tire and fall.
+  
+  The rain lifted, and with it went the footsteps.
+  I was safe, of a kind, but just as trapped as before.
+  I rested for a few moments, before stumbling forward in hope of finding a gate before the rain returned, my body aching.
+  
+  But it rained again.
+  And again, and again, through day and night.
+  I do not know how many frozen cold wet nights I ran for.
+  It never quite reached me, but it was often close, its scent lingering, mixing with my own newfound smell of decay.
+  Even though I knew there was no exit from this foul place, I kept running, hope alone keeping me mobile.
+  
+  Days turned to weeks, and I collapsed, exhausted and starving, not even having the strength to fear anymore.
+  I willed it to catch me, to consume me through myself.
+  When the rain came that time, I did not hear the footsteps.
+  
+  I am told I spent only 3 days abroad, although they will admit I looked somehow aged.
+  I escaped with my life, but I am less sure of my soul, and know I have lost my mind.
+  My nurse chatters to herself as she tidies my bedsheets and nightstand.
+  I pick at my skin and start to salivate.
+notes: |
+  This was a summary of a [student union society](https://www.union.ic.ac.uk/rcc/meat/)
+  trip to Bruges for the student newspaper, [Felix](http://felixonline.co.uk).
+  At breakfast on the second day, a writeup for Felix came up, and as we were all
+  members of the [science fiction society](http://icsf.org.uk) we thought it would
+  be fun to do one each in different styles. Mine was, [again](../chesham), gothic horror.
+
+  It's largely factual if skewed; we did nearly get off at the wrong station, and
+  got lost a lot.  The pub is probably the one at the corner of Langestraat and
+  Molenmeers (it was 2014, I'm writing this in 2016, and it's not readily
+  searchable). The cannibals were from a statue in the [chocolate museum](http://www.choco-story.be/ENG).
+
+  It was published in [Issue 1581 of Felix](http://felixonline.co.uk/issuearchive/issue/1393/download/) (page 37).
+---
+{% extends 'templates/base.html' %}
+{% block body %}
+	<nav>
+		<a href='/writings'>&gt; writings</a>
+	</nav>
+	<header>
+		<h1>{{ title }}</h1>
+	</header>
+
+	<article>{{ body | markdown }}</article>
+	<hr />
+	<aside>{{ notes | markdown }}</aside> 
+{% endblock %}
diff --git a/src/writings/chair.thrust b/src/writings/chair.thrust
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e0a1b73
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/writings/chair.thrust
@@ -0,0 +1,72 @@
+---
+layout: writings
+title: Chair
+date: 2016-02-04
+notes: |
+  This was the first short story for my current writing group in early 2016. The
+  stimulus was "chair", simply because we needed a stimulus and there were chairs
+  in the room and we ran with it.
+body: |
+  The chair lay in one corner of the room, slightly angled toward the window, the
+  sun mottled on the cracked leather. Empty. The client sat in a chair opposite,
+  and Jenine perched on the sofa. The clock ticked.
+  
+  "How are you, Mrs Bateman?"
+  
+  "I'm good thank you, dear. Tired, but almost bored. Empty nest syndrome no
+  doubt. John's away on business again. Celia Vrije keeps bringing me food,
+  'checking to see if I'm OK'. You'd almost think there'd been a death in the
+  family."
+  
+  Mrs Bateman patted the arm of the empty chair. Jenine nodded, smiled, took the
+  nearest of the three cups of tea, put it to her lips, before holding it. You're
+  not supposed to consume things given to you by clients, but refusing
+  hospitality usually doesn't go well.
+  
+  "How is John."
+  
+  "Oh you know, always out. Working, picking the kids up from school, at the
+  allotment. He's started getting up and out of the house before me. I swear I've
+  hardly seen him all week."
+  
+  "How are the children."
+  
+  "They haven't been in touch lately, not since they took the car to move Gin
+  into halls. No doubt off having crazy adventures. I remember what it was like,
+  exploring the world, exploring ourselves, without a care in sight. I'm sure you
+  remember. You can't be much older than my Eli."
+  
+  "Hah, yes, I do. Wild times."
+  
+  Build rapport with the client, ensure they're comfortable, listened to.
+  Connect, but not enough to risk getting involved or, worse, them becoming
+  dependent.
+  
+  "It has been months since they called, though."
+  
+  A moment of silence, a quick flash of something across her face, before it
+  reset.
+  
+  "Now, remind me again what it was you were here for?"
+  
+  "I'm here to see how you are."
+  
+  "Oh god, like Celia from next door. I'm fine. Where has this idea that there's
+  something wrong with me come from? Just a little stressed and, I suppose,
+  lonely. But I'll find new hobbies now the kids have left, and I still have
+  John. Thinking of, he should be home soon, you only just missed him popping out
+  to the shops."
+---
+{% extends 'templates/base.html' %}
+{% block body %}
+	<nav>
+		<a href='/writings'>&gt; writings</a>
+	</nav>
+	<header>
+		<h1>{{ title }}</h1>
+	</header>
+
+	<article>{{ body | markdown }}</article>
+	<hr />
+	<aside>{{ notes | markdown }}</aside>
+{% endblock %}
diff --git a/src/writings/chesham.thrust b/src/writings/chesham.thrust
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ca372dc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/writings/chesham.thrust
@@ -0,0 +1,74 @@
+---
+layout: writings
+title: Chesham
+date: 2014-01-01
+body: |
+  I had received a summons from a family friend, telling me that I must travel to her as soon as possible, for matters of the utmost importance that could only be spoken in person.
+  I knew her to not be the kind to speak in exaggeration, and so packed a bag and left as quickly as I could.
+  
+  The train out to the village was as uneventful as one would expect, until it reached the penultimate stop.
+  When the doors opened, I noticed only silence, snaking itself around me until I was wrapped in it and its accompanying sense of foreboding.
+  The train stood, doors open, as though beckoning me out in hope, for some minutes, before begrudgingly closing them and lurching on again toward the final stop.
+  
+  The railway from there is a long single track winding its way up the hill.
+  We soon passed into fog, and the train started screaming, as though in fear. As it ached further and further up the hill, the sense of foreboding grew, until finally the train came to a halt, just long enough to spit me out into the chill, before escaping back down the hill to safety.
+  As I made my way along the platform, I caught, out of the corner of my eye, three bright red dots, piercing through the mist.
+  
+  Outside the station, I was met by the cousin, and we descended the hill toward her homestead.
+  She did not mention the matter that had troubled so to call me here, but I was feeling somewhat drained from the journey and decided to let her raise it in her own time.
+  We dined and discussed trivialities, before retiring to bed.
+  
+  The following morning, we went through the town to the butcher for that evening's meal.
+  As we walked, I studied the buildings we passed with a kind of fascination.
+  The terrace row she lived on lead into warehouses, before meeting a road headed by a grand building I assumed must be a church.
+  It felt like it was not one village, but several, from disparate times and places, as though built, not by the hands of men, but by memories, superimposed upon one another.
+  
+  As we reached the main street, the wrongness intensified.
+  I could see the end of the street, or right in front of me - to attempt focussing on the middle hurt and stung my eyes.
+  We made our purchases, before heading opposite to a coffee house.
+  
+  As we sat down with the steaming invigorating brews, a couple entered.
+  I merely noted their entry, and thought nothing of them, until they entered the coffee house a second time.
+  I sniffed my drink to ensure it had not been altered, and studied them in closer detail to find some different feature or indication of play disguise, but, albeit in different clothing, they were most definitely the same pair.
+  My host seemed unperturbed by this.
+  
+  Eventually, I asked her the reason for requesting my presence.
+  
+  "Oh, I thought it might be nice for you to get out of the city for a bit.
+  To relax and unwind"
+  
+  This response left me confused and wary.
+  In her letter, she had seemed urgent and distraught, and she had never been the kind for such frivolous correspondence.
+  I thanked her for her sentiment and care for my wellbeing, but resolved to discover her real motive in bringing me out here.
+  
+  The main street felt more uncomfortable on the return journey, with the same strange sick feeling at trying to gauge its length.
+  Upon turning the corner back to her house, I noticed a sign that I didn't recall seeing on the way out, or the previous day.
+  "To the spiritualist church", daubed on the wall of a house in stark black and white.
+  A little way on, in a gap in the terrace where houses should have been, was a wooden shack, with a small cross made from simple crossed timber affixed to the top.
+  It stood alone in an otherwise empty plot, and a sign on the door read "Spiritualist Church".
+  As I stared at it, so out of place, I felt something rise up in me, a need to run, but an even stronger desire to go inside and offer myself in worship to... something.
+  
+  That night, my dreams were filled with images of the church, the extreme wrongness of the road, and a chanting over and over of the words on the sign, "to the spiritualist church", until it burned itself into my mind.
+  
+  We went out again, and, as the day before, the peculiar hut stood waiting, its black door calling out to me, demanding I go inside, scolding me was we passed it.
+  The village center was eerily quiet, and, as we turned onto that awful road, I noticed the paving shift and slide while staying the same, the cracks both moving and not moving, and I suppressed the urge to scream.
+  I heard the chanting inside my head once more, and felt the terrible draw of the church.
+  I knew I needed to leave immediately, back to safety, far away.
+  I told my host I had suddenly remembered an important appointment, pleading that I must go at once.
+  
+  "Oh, but I haven't even shown you the hill.
+  Everyone who comes here eventually goes up the hill."
+  
+  I hope this letter reaches you safely, and that you are not so foolish as to follow me.
+---
+{% extends 'templates/base.html' %}
+{% block body %}
+	<nav>
+		<a href='/writings'>&gt; writings</a>
+	</nav>
+	<header>
+		<h1>{{ title }}</h1>
+	</header>
+
+	<article>{{ body | markdown }}</article>
+{% endblock %}
diff --git a/src/writings/helena.thrust b/src/writings/helena.thrust
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4649c45
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/writings/helena.thrust
@@ -0,0 +1,49 @@
+---
+layout: writings
+title: Helena
+date: 2016-02-18
+notes: |
+  Another homework from my writing group. We had done an exercise about character
+  creation, and the stimulus was to write a story with that character.
+body: |
+  There once was a small village near the Western forests. Not much happened there, and the villagers preferred it that way. Among the villagers, however, was a woman called Helena. Helena was not so content with their simple way of life. She dreamed of royal palaces of marble, of gleaming spires atop castles, of cities bursting with activity. Most of all she dreamed of a prince who would come to whisk her away.
+  
+  "Soon my prince will come!", she would say to anyone who would listen. "He will come and take me from this village and we shall be together forever!"
+  
+  The other villagers would scoff and go back to their fields.
+  
+  
+  One day, a young man came to the village, looking to take a wife. He came upon Helena and, taken by her beauty, asked her hand in marriage.
+  
+  "Oh dear Helena! Won't you be mine!"
+  
+  "You are very kind", she replied, "but I am waiting for my prince to take me away".
+  
+  He tried again and again, with gifts and serenades, but still she would only say that she was waiting for her prince. Saddened, he left the village and continued his journey.
+  
+  
+  A year later, another man tried, to much the same. And another, and another. No matter how hard they tried, they always got the same reply, "but I am waiting for my prince to take me away".
+  
+  The women she'd grown up with tutted and sighed, as one by one they were married, until only Helena remained.
+  
+  
+  Winters came and summers passed. Youngsters became adults, adults became elders. Those she knew moved away to the city she so craved. Soon there was no-one but her. And still she waited.
+  
+  "Soon my prince will come!" she would cry, alone, to herself.
+  
+  
+  A child out berry-picking came across her washed up downstream. She was smiling. Her prince had come, riding in on his pale horse, and at last taken her from the village.
+---
+{% extends 'templates/base.html' %}
+{% block body %}
+	<nav>
+		<a href='/writings'>&gt; writings</a>
+	</nav>
+	<header>
+		<h1>{{ title }}</h1>
+	</header>
+
+	<article>{{ body | markdown }}</article>
+	<hr />
+	<aside>{{ notes | markdown }}</aside>
+{% endblock %}
diff --git a/src/writings/piracy.thrust b/src/writings/piracy.thrust
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..66fcc1f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/writings/piracy.thrust
@@ -0,0 +1,63 @@
+---
+layout: writings
+title: Piracy
+date: 2016-04-21
+notes: |
+  Revision 1 the splicing together of two stories I'd already started. I think 
+  this will be my first attempt at something longer.
+body: |
+  “The enemy!”. The cry carried down the halls, as people woke. The word had come 
+  down from the surveillance balloon, and now the garrison was mobilizing. 
+  Andreas was disappointed at the lack of sleep, but excited to see his first 
+  battle. He ran out from his bunk and to his post. The strong flow of people 
+  impeded him some, but before long he was looking at the ammunition dump of a  
+  large gun. The crew fully assembled, he and another new recruit loaded the 
+  shell, the leader aimed, and with a spark and a bang it flew toward the enemy. 
+  He had read in the newspapers as a child of the intensity of war work, but he 
+  was taken aback still. He hoped he had the luck to survive this first combat.
+  
+  ***
+  
+  Ugh, nope. Morrisee Williams had never gotten the hang of jacking as a guy. Too 
+  much movement. Her sister, 8 years younger, had grown up with the tech and 
+  could handle it just fine. Her parents couldn’t jack properly at all; a simple 
+  simulated walk and they would need a lie-down.
+  
+  She checked the screen: 9 hours and 48 minutes. Barely 10 minutes wasted. She 
+  called the attendant. “A scotch on the rocks!”. She knew it was terrible whisky 
+  (Leanne had ensured her daughter had a proper upbringing), but the thrill of 
+  being able to order it herself more than made up. She flicked through the other 
+  jacks she had brought. Do Or Die, another action-y thing about the war in 
+  Afghanistan. Between Us, a sappy romance. Her Name In Lights, some period drama 
+  about the 1990s. There was the one Jaime had given her, but she was embarrassed 
+  to try it in public; involuntary movements and expressions were a risk with 
+  jacking, and her parents were just across the aisle.
+  
+  9 hours and 40 minutes. Some crackers. The in-flight jacks were all weaksauce 
+  for her parents generation, but one caught her eye.
+  
+  Piracy.
+  In a world where anything can be copied, the only thing left to steal is people.
+  Tagged: scifi, female protag, deep immersion.
+  
+  She leaned back and let the machine take her in.
+  
+  ***
+  
+  "Ooh, this one looks juicy!".  Three professors, a dignitary, a general.  Onto 
+  the pile it went.  Van idly fondled a peanut as she skimmed the day's departure 
+  list…
+---
+{% extends 'templates/base.html' %}
+{% block body %}
+	<nav>
+		<a href='/writings'>&gt; writings</a>
+	</nav>
+	<header>
+		<h1>{{ title }}</h1>
+	</header>
+
+	<article>{{ body | markdown }}</article>
+	<hr />
+	<aside>{{ notes | markdown }}</aside>
+{% endblock %}