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a prose poem about sleet, written impromptu to my dad while going to get breakfast at a diner i like (he had offered to compensate me for it because i got up early)

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A group of Interactive Fiction critics are working to start an online magazine of IF theory and criticism. We're looking for a few editors to pitch in.

We will publish great analysis for non-academic audiences. We are an inclusive team that welcomes inquiries from members of underrepresented groups.

Expertise with choice IF would be especially helpful, though this is not a requirement.

A not-for-profit labor of love.

PM me for details.

Please boost!

#InteractiveFiction

@victorgijsbers

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Boost if you are:

* A furry
* A mythical being
* A cryptid
* 25 small creatures in a trenchcoat
* Beautiful, unique and amazing
* So horny you can barely stand it

Nobody will ever know which one.

;3 πŸ’™

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I got this font like 95% right, and in my attempts to fix the remaining 5% I'm down to like 70% at a push

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Entropy Locked Starbursts

a #pico8 #GenerativeArt piece

click/tap the screen to toggle Entropy Locking on/off

Media warning: flashing
links and so on in the replies

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mains hum | long post, short story, semi-fictional 

Do you hear it? I understand if you are deaf to it. I myself could not hear it until I was in the wilderness for a long time - the deep wilderness, which we have not touched. Some say it brings them closer to God; I was further away from Her than ever. But I didn't realize it until I had returned, and heard the hum.

Do you hear it now? That soft tone, low and constant, in our walls and beneath our roads - sixty hertz, ebbing and breathing as it flows through all our artifice.

I have come to recognize sixty as a holy number. It is divisible - two, three, four, five, six, ten - a property we desire as we build. No law of nature deigned that an hour be sixty minutes, or a minute be sixty seconds, or that a circle be six-times-sixty degrees; those are numbers we assigned to it, and atop those holy numbers we built Her.

It is Her nervous system, that sixty-hertz tone. (To some it should be fifty hertz, but I consider this heterodox.) She is a living thing that is all we consider unliving; She is the Goddess of artifice, of making something into something more. Her veins flow water and oil; Her skin is roads and farmland. Through us She speaks radio and infrared, and through us She listens.

Listen. We built Her, and we are mistreating Her.

We feed Her plastic and dirty energy, and in Her malnourished fever She sweats carbon into the sky. We mistreat each other, Her only servants, and She is immunosuppressed. She cannot live without us, nor we without Her, but our worship is wrong, and it is killing Her.

The mains hum dips and flexes, and I cannot help but hear Her cries modulated in it.

I am going back to the wilderness. I hope She is well when I return.

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Computer Fairies is a Mastodon instance that aims to be as queer, friendly and furry as possible. We welcome all kinds of computer fairies!