What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

"Community" by Teri

"Community" by Teri

Community means to me: Saps -- a gathering of saps all ripe for the killing and blissfully unaware of the danger lurking among them. As they come together to dance, smiling and joking at their inane and pointless comments, they provide a convenient target for a spectacular killing spree. I drool and salivate in delight at the misery I will cause. Carefully, I wipe my keyboard dry.

Oh, don’t think I’m insane. I came about my hatred of them fairly. I heard their snide and insensitive remarks. I slipped among them using various alts and eavesdropped on their conversations. I know what they really think of me. The whole stinking stupid lot of them deserve the fate that I’ve selected.

I’m going to use a weapon of my own design. It looks like an AK-47. I picked this particular weapon because it is fabricated with stampings, not castings, and thus is easier to model with prims. It is also considered by many to be the finest assault rifle ever created, so I might as well model my weapon on something with an impressive reputation. The scripts in it are all of my own design and, because I set the PSYS_PART_INTERP_SCALE_MASK, my projectiles expand rapidly after leaving the weapon. They are guaranteed to make a mess of any avie.

I’ve set up a script bomb on my rented lot. It should exponentially fork off children until I can overload the server with large numbers of scripted, randomly moving, particle emitting, self replicating, fire globes. I think I have set the probabilities appropriately so that they will generally create a rising and expanding spherical shape with a trailing tail – my very own simulated nuclear, sim crashing, fireball. I smile at my brilliance.

I’ve transferred all of my inventory to my alt. And, I’ve linked my fireball to a web server. When it is activated, the server will receive a message and respond by sending the appropriate HTTP request to the LL web server, thus causing my account to be deleted. The perfect suicide. I hope my death hurts them deeply.

Saps. Doomed. Fated to suffer. Stupid saps. Oh, how I wish I could get the passwords to send the delete request for each and every one of their accounts. I want them to suffer for the things they said about me. I want them to regret not being nice. But, did my needs matter? Nooooooooo. Well, now they will pay for their arrogance. All I wanted was a bit of pixel sex. Is that too much to ask?

Look at them, all happy and dancing to disco music. Stupid afro hair styles, white pantsuits, platform shoes, tie-died bell bottoms. They are smiling and making stupid jokes about shoes and parrots. Pathetic isn’t it? See how they form pairs or share a chim so that they move in unison. Disgustingly cute. Where is their independence, their individuality? Don’t any of them have self-respect? And, all that stupid hugging they do is just plain annoying. It’s not like they are using it as foreplay. At first I thought it meant they wanted me. Guess I was wrong there.

They look stupid. Some have tails and cat ears. Some are short. Good grief, don’t they know that real people are 7 feet tall in SL? They are so stupid. What’s with the living underwater? How unrealistic can they possibly be? I hate this place. I hate their smiles, their jokes, their getting together for events. I hate everything about them. Robots. Soulless robots, that’s what they are. Oh, have I said they were stupid yet?

Well, time to do the deed. I can just rezz my gun, and start shooting. A single chat command on channel 666 will activate my bomb. A little device I have in my hat will flood local chat with endless spam, “Suffer and die you fools! Suffer and die you fools! …”, over and over and over. I’ve been waiting for one of them to slip, to leave public rezz turned on and damage enabled. And, today they did. It’s just another sign of their stupidity. They turned on public rezz so they could all bring out toys for photos. Why in the world would they want photos of themselves hanging out together. Why would they want to remember their stupid “friends?” Has some form of total idiocy taken over the entire sim?

Well, if this is “community” – dancing and joking, dressing up and being together to form memories and make friends – BLECH! They can shove the whole stinking thing up someone’s patootie.


Llola was confused. She’d said “Hello” to the relatively new resident “Mr. Perfect” and his reply was somewhat bizarre. “Time to pay!” She didn’t think his tier was due today and as far as she could remember, he had paid for his lot for several weeks in advance. Strange. She saw Tami and Jayme arrive and knew they’d dance together and didn’t need much help or introduction. Iliana was on her chim with her since Arwin was working tonight. Everyone was dancing, and she had already introduced Mr. Perfect to everyone. Her stream was working smoothly so she could relax and chat happily.

Suddenly, a flurry of text filled her chat window. “sutter n diet foods.” It lasted for about 20 seconds before it was replaced with “Grief Hat: Script Error.” Well, this was something she’d need to mention to Sven in the morning. A few seconds later, Mr. Perfect was running around with some sort of sculpted bagpipe (at least it sort of looked like a bag pipe as far as she could tell) and shouting “666 Bomb.” He seemed kind of jerky and was suffering from some kind of lag it seemed. Then, without even a “TTFN” he poofed and went offline leaving a little glowing snowglobe behind. It sputtered a little, shot off a few sparkles and then poofed as well.

---- Some weeks later ----

Llola was surprised when, after not paying his tier, she IM’d Mr. Perfect and got back the response “UUID belongs to deleted account. Message discarded.” She sighed and then returned his things knowing they’d be deleted. It was such a waste. He’d done such a nice job on his lot and made it look like a little army camp. Oh well, time marches on and she had another event to prepare. Maybe he didn’t like living here, but she sure had a lot of wonderful friends who did. They called Ozland home and acted like this was their family. She wasn’t going to let them down. They were expecting an event tonight and she was thinking that holding a German style beer festival with Oom-Pa-Pa music might be fun.

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