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That seems pretty far-fetched... (lemmy.world)

submitted 1 week ago* (last edited 1 week ago) by The_Picard_Maneuver@lemmy.world to c/whitepeopletwitter@sh.itjust.works

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[–] sunstoned@lemmus.org 10 points 1 week ago (2 children)

Is there a term for this kind of sci-fi esque reframing of what we'd otherwise think of as "normal" to highlight how ridiculously cool or weird something is?

Thinking along the lines of Body Ritual Among The Nacirema

[–] bane_killgrind@slrpnk.net 4 points 1 week ago* (last edited 1 week ago)

That's fucking great

Edit this reminds me of years ago, I was very bored working my security job on a plaza, I wrote a log entry is this kind of way. Normal public plaza with metal patio furniture and umbrellas.. like an alien landscape

[–] bane_killgrind@slrpnk.net 4 points 1 week ago

I found the noir one

I closed my eyes as I walked down the ramp, trying to shed the stress that's been building. Routine etched into my body, I'm at one with the world. The curb arrives a step too soon and my whole body clenches, my eyes snap open. I noticed a Cadillac turning around, it's diesel engine revving. I slowed and watched. He edges backwards and forwards too many times. The smell of gas overpowered the almost ever present mildew and moisture. My attention turned to the door. I raised my key to the lock, the resistance familiar and the clicking cathartic. An empty hallway, and another door. A satisfying click. A room. I turn the lights off. The other hallway is as lifeless as the first. I check each door, locked. One washroom clear, the next, spotless. I leave through the door I entered, diesel lingering in the air. I kept my eyes open for the walk up the ramp. I passed two women in a hushed conversation, a quick glance at my uniform and I'm quickly forgotten. The fleeting attention stirs me, a reminder of my solitude. I turn the corner, a gust of icy wind bites into my face and polyurethane coated Kevlar gloves. They aren't right for the weather, being made to handle plate glass and sheet steel. Perfect for grabbing a blade, function over comfort. My eyes scan the lot, probing each corner. Empty. I reach where I began, my least favorite part. Crouching down, vulnerable, a bittersweet click unlocks this door, the latch along the bottom. Exposed to dirt, rain, slush, the lock drags me down to it's level, every day, twice every hour. I'm exposed, just the same as it. The door opens and I straighten, nobody nearby. My gloves slip off and are thrown to the table, I've lost control to habit and routine. The cap comes off the pen and the tip presses to paper. "2134h. Patrolled, no issues."