I walk the epochs of the world unchanging

Time, that capricious puppeteer who spins me on his strings

Who makes me dance round that metaphorical maypole

Sometimes lover, sometimes mother, often servant, often slave

Trophy, trinket, property of wealthy men, mistress, wife

All for the want of a handful of organs

I rule as queen over the builders of stone triangles

I watch as moon-goddess over fearful tribes who paint their face with poison

The grounds of Starfleet Academy are expansive and well-mapped.  Voice-activated navigation and other computerized services are omnipresent.  Ensign Jameson stood looking at the wall, musing.

Gregor awoke to find himself a character in a piece of short fiction posted to an Internet user's blog.  He looked about him, finding that his body was now rendered only in textual form and thus was subject to the collective imagination of anyone who might happen across the post.  Perhaps he had brown hair, or blue eyes, or a broken nose, perhaps all of these things; but the relentlessly vague nature of prose English constrained him from saying just how particularly brown or blue or broken these things might be.  The specific apprehension of the human senses was denied to him.

I was rounded up at night and put on board a bus. Jet Li was driving.

We traveled for a long time.  We weren't confined as such but all of us on board had no chance to escape.

We arrived at this massive cavernous complex dug into the mountains of Colorado.  The bus arrived at a modern underground facility.  A parking lot and handling facilities were there.  We were unloaded and directed to private quarters inside.  It was the nicest prison I'd ever seen.

I dreamed that most of the American continent had been wholly transformed.  It followed the MMO mechanics of Warcraft in the dream, but did not share its geography.

There was an enormous stone construction that was a sort of building or temple, very narrow and acting as a dividing wall in the western part of the country.  On the north end, things were fairly desolate.  A sort of rock quarry with sloped walls.

Old Drosselmeyer straightens out his doll on the workbench.  He surveys her gears and clockwork with pride.  He attaches her skin carefully, mindful of the folds and creases.  It must look natural, after all, but still beautiful.  He winds her with pride.  The doll's voice creaks out from hidden speakers; the mouth moves.  "H.. he....l..l..o... f..a..t..h..e..r.."

I propose a simple test for evaluating the resilience, technology and overall "usefulness" of a given civilization.  I call it the Rock Test.

The test is as follows:

Imagine a rock falling from space on your position.  How big does the rock need to be to wipe out all your stuff?

I'm working on the character sheet for a superhuman named Silence, whose power is the neutralization of energy sources around him.  He has a very high ED and some PD, can harm people with a touch (by neutralizing their body heat), and has other abilities such as immunity to radiation.

Nibblin' on fish feast
My DPS increased
All of the healers are casting their spells
The tanks have got good threat
But I haven't gone in yet
On account of my gear really smells

Wipin' away again in Icecrown Citadel
Searching for a good pug group for Vault
Some people claim that the rogue was to blame
But I know it's nobody's fault

I don't have the right buff
I stood in the bad stuff
Now we're on attempt twenty-two
The raid lead's on vent now
He's got some real know-how

Summary: a ghostly possession phenomenon accompanies an entire spacefaring species.

A man is working at a desk in a grassy field, near the edge of a forest.  There is a fence nearby stretching to the visible extent of the field - a long ways away, other things might be happening, but here he is isolated.  He's slowly packing his belongings back into a set of containers.  He's visited by the administrator of a school to which he's associated, and they have a short conversation.