"Can I go out on a limb?"
"Well, just be sure that it's not one of those really spindly ones that'll break-- No one has any business going out on limbs which can't support them..."
"Right... Well I've been experiencing some... odd things, lately."
"Go on? Oh, sure I'll have a coffee, but no salt."
"So, whenever I think of something terrible, it happens."
"Is that so?"
"Yes! So, you know how the recent dam collapsed? And all of the people in the city below it were killed?"
"Of course."
"Well, I thought of that."
"Goodness, why did you think of it?"
"What do you mean?"
"How could you think of such terrible things?"
"Well, I didn't really WANT it to happen, I just..."
"You should really be careful what you think of-- considering."
"Considering what?"
"Well, as a magician, you make things happen that others cannot explain."
"But that's different, that's illusion."
"Wasn't it some wise old psychologist that was quoted in the 20th century saying 'reality is an illusion?'"
"I'm not sure, but it's not as if this was one of my acts, it's just a coincidence."
"Oh... Well, then what's so odd about that?"
"I'm not too sure anymore..."
The two friends drank bitter coffee in silence for a long while. The magician, Todd, was at a loss. All that he had put stock into, all that he believed, all the specialness that he supposed upon himself, was gone. He felt very little, and so corrected. Such as when, as a child, your parents guide your eyes to the night sky, and point out just how far away those infinite stars are past the protection of the dome. His friend, Jona, had just guided his realization outward. His logic having stifled his ego, and left him with only coincidence-- instead of the vast possibilities of being able to control anything in the world.
Todd spoke: "Where do you want to go tonight?"
"I'm not sure," Jona replied, affixing their vision on the slowly passing turtles on the nearby sidewalk-- all painted with adverts for the coming traveling zoo. Jona read: "Tonight at 5 PM in the Tunnel of Dome Six. Free admission with donation of fuel."
"So you want to go to the Zoo?" Todd suggested.
"Well, it would give you a chance to apply for a position. I wonder if the zoo has ever had a magician... It seems pretty fitting-- considering the magic of nature."
"Sure. That makes sense."
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
43 - From Earth to Pluto - J.F. Hire
It takes mere seconds for the light reflecting off of Pluto to meet James' eye, refracting from the mirrors within his telescope, and dazzling him with hints of the stars beyond.
James doesn't exactly appreciate this gift, though. This ability for his vision to travel into the past, and make it back home in time to plan for the future. He sees Pluto. He acknowledges its existence, but instead of being overwhelmed by it, he nods and moves to the next astrological display of magnificence. He has learned not to focus on one thing, be it great or terrible.
At times, this leaves James missing out on the splendor of excitement or jubilation in discovering new stars and systems beyond our reach. Other instances allow him the peace and calm to chart these discoveries most accurately, and alone-- without the worry of others catching wind of his discovery due to loud shouts and laughter of joy.
He discovered the planet that we now call Themis II. He discovered it with a subdued and consistent flame broiling under the surface. With steady hands and a level head, he pushed our discoveries past the known systems and into another final frontier.
--
And so here I am. I'm in my shuttle toward Themis II. My hands are shaking, and my mind is quaking, and my whole being is trying to figure out the difference between heart and soul. Before I can even grasp what to do next-- I'm fighting back tears.
"ETA is 5 hours. Warp Drive Capacity at 60%. System integrity at 100%...."
"Yea, yea I got you... Just, stop shouting, comp. I'm trying to breathe."
I've been on the shuttle for about ten days now. I've had the typical psychological waves of joy and depression as anyone would on a one-man-mission into the unknown.
All of the world depends on me. All of the people depend on my success.
"What if I don't make it... Or what if I crash land. What if the planet DOESN'T sustain life? Fuck... What if there's..."
Part of my mind drowns the words out, and the other part reels from them. Without much of a choice, I'm left battling my own psyche while the computer is screaming at me.
"Refreshing oxygen cycle in five minutes. Routine flushing of the system in ten minutes."
I couldn't take much more of it. The fear of moving forward was so vast, so daunting-- but felt so expansive and liberating. While cabin fever sets in, my mind wants to take flight toward the unknown.
But then there was the fear of the unknown, the uncertainty, the worry, the what-ifs, and my own sanity. That made me want to curl into a ball. It's what made me pull the Emergency Return lever.
It's why I'm heading back to Earth right now.
--
"ETA 10 Hours."
I'm just sitting, and breathing, and thinking about what I've done.
"ETA in 5 hours."
I'm still sitting, and thinking, and reconsidering it... But I feel so scared either way-- and now it's a frightening vastness which is somehow engulfing me.
"ETA in Ten... Nine..."
"There she is--Themis II. Oh christ... We're comin' in hot!"
--
Themis II is vivid blue, and as she breaks the atmosphere, it melts into a dilute green, which grows in intensity upon approach. The computer blares at her, warning her of oncoming impact. Light flash, part of the shuttle breaks off into space for landing.
--
I land, and I am so full of pride. Even amidst all of the previous uncertainty and emotional turmoil. Even though I am alone except for my comp. Even when I still have to chart this landing site, test levels, and get back within two months... I made it. Adversity is a bitch, but once she is overcome and left in the dust of the survey rover to the East of me, it all is worth it.
Or perhaps adversity is among the stars within which I lost myself and found the truth. Maybe it's back on Earth, when I started this journey. Wherever the adversity latched onto me like a leech to begin with, I have pulled it from to regain myself.
--
Themis, the goddess of balance, and the ruler of the scales. She dictates what happens on Themis II. She is this world's God. She will realign those who meet her gaze, because she finds their gaze wanting. Far from those impulsive and fleeting desires, she directs their eyes skyward-- with no worry of the past, and no longing for the future, but to focus on the presence of now, and to keep looking up.
--
-"Themis II reporting, personal log number five, week two. It's interesting, sometimes I feel sort of alone, when comp goes on refresh and the rover is out for survey. Then I have this urge to just... look up. Sometimes without a telescope, sometimes with. I sense Earth, and my work being done to further us all as a race. Productivity is up, and morale is quite high. Logging."-
James doesn't exactly appreciate this gift, though. This ability for his vision to travel into the past, and make it back home in time to plan for the future. He sees Pluto. He acknowledges its existence, but instead of being overwhelmed by it, he nods and moves to the next astrological display of magnificence. He has learned not to focus on one thing, be it great or terrible.
At times, this leaves James missing out on the splendor of excitement or jubilation in discovering new stars and systems beyond our reach. Other instances allow him the peace and calm to chart these discoveries most accurately, and alone-- without the worry of others catching wind of his discovery due to loud shouts and laughter of joy.
He discovered the planet that we now call Themis II. He discovered it with a subdued and consistent flame broiling under the surface. With steady hands and a level head, he pushed our discoveries past the known systems and into another final frontier.
--
And so here I am. I'm in my shuttle toward Themis II. My hands are shaking, and my mind is quaking, and my whole being is trying to figure out the difference between heart and soul. Before I can even grasp what to do next-- I'm fighting back tears.
"ETA is 5 hours. Warp Drive Capacity at 60%. System integrity at 100%...."
"Yea, yea I got you... Just, stop shouting, comp. I'm trying to breathe."
I've been on the shuttle for about ten days now. I've had the typical psychological waves of joy and depression as anyone would on a one-man-mission into the unknown.
All of the world depends on me. All of the people depend on my success.
"What if I don't make it... Or what if I crash land. What if the planet DOESN'T sustain life? Fuck... What if there's..."
Part of my mind drowns the words out, and the other part reels from them. Without much of a choice, I'm left battling my own psyche while the computer is screaming at me.
"Refreshing oxygen cycle in five minutes. Routine flushing of the system in ten minutes."
I couldn't take much more of it. The fear of moving forward was so vast, so daunting-- but felt so expansive and liberating. While cabin fever sets in, my mind wants to take flight toward the unknown.
But then there was the fear of the unknown, the uncertainty, the worry, the what-ifs, and my own sanity. That made me want to curl into a ball. It's what made me pull the Emergency Return lever.
It's why I'm heading back to Earth right now.
--
"ETA 10 Hours."
I'm just sitting, and breathing, and thinking about what I've done.
"ETA in 5 hours."
I'm still sitting, and thinking, and reconsidering it... But I feel so scared either way-- and now it's a frightening vastness which is somehow engulfing me.
"ETA in Ten... Nine..."
"There she is--Themis II. Oh christ... We're comin' in hot!"
--
Themis II is vivid blue, and as she breaks the atmosphere, it melts into a dilute green, which grows in intensity upon approach. The computer blares at her, warning her of oncoming impact. Light flash, part of the shuttle breaks off into space for landing.
--
I land, and I am so full of pride. Even amidst all of the previous uncertainty and emotional turmoil. Even though I am alone except for my comp. Even when I still have to chart this landing site, test levels, and get back within two months... I made it. Adversity is a bitch, but once she is overcome and left in the dust of the survey rover to the East of me, it all is worth it.
Or perhaps adversity is among the stars within which I lost myself and found the truth. Maybe it's back on Earth, when I started this journey. Wherever the adversity latched onto me like a leech to begin with, I have pulled it from to regain myself.
--
Themis, the goddess of balance, and the ruler of the scales. She dictates what happens on Themis II. She is this world's God. She will realign those who meet her gaze, because she finds their gaze wanting. Far from those impulsive and fleeting desires, she directs their eyes skyward-- with no worry of the past, and no longing for the future, but to focus on the presence of now, and to keep looking up.
--
-"Themis II reporting, personal log number five, week two. It's interesting, sometimes I feel sort of alone, when comp goes on refresh and the rover is out for survey. Then I have this urge to just... look up. Sometimes without a telescope, sometimes with. I sense Earth, and my work being done to further us all as a race. Productivity is up, and morale is quite high. Logging."-
From Earth to Pluto - RT Shores
Flash! Earth Contacts Pluto!
My seams were crooked and I was late to the lab. I was the first woman scientist at the base and I couldn't allow things like this to happen! I ran. My high heels had been made specially for me with thicker heels and small straps to keep them in place for times like this.
I flew through the door right under the wire and the head lab tech frowned at me, but what else was new? He felt I was wasting myself as a woman and when would I have babies? Sheesh!
I was monitoring communications, okay - sounds, from outer space. That is all I did. I sat at a desk and wore uncomfortable headphones and listened. Boring and fruitless to date, but it was my field and I did it proudly.
The door banged open and I didn't need to look up to see that it was the military who governed the base. I was never sought out for my mind, but for my looks. I buttoned my lab coat over my bountiful bosom and slumped over. I also made sure my skirt was well over my knees.
They ignored me today. It seemed that something was afoot. I slid off one headphone and listened. I heard Pluto and Spaceship X and a few other words worthy of note.
***
Evening had arrived and the suitors came with it. Each day I would have close to a dozen suitors vying for my time and they would walk me home hoping for an invitation inside. All were denied. I had to hide inside every night with the lights low or off and sit close to the small black and white set or radio for a little fun.
I made sure to cook foods that weren't enticing, as well. Life here was a big bore with bouts of fighting off men. I was ready to leave, but had a few months left to fulfill my contract so I wasn't blacklisted.
Bed was calling me and a Reader's Digest book. I turned on my reading lamp and was asleep before I finished page one.
***
I was shaken from the bed and threw my hands up, thinking it an over ambitious man. All I saw was a red glow outside the window. I grabbed my robe, slid into my slippers and pulled up the blinds. The hillside was flaming. The phone began to ring and I grabbed it.
A rude and abrupt voice said, "Get dressed! A jeep will be there in five minutes and we are evacuating." The line disconnected.
I put on slacks, a blouse and a cardigan sweater and chose socks and loafers. A scarf covered my hair and my handbag was on my arm. That would have to do for now.
A jeep squealed to a stop and I hopped inside. A soldier fastened a safety belt on me and we were off.
The ride was bumpy and dangerous, but something was driving us forward. I didn't know what it was, but felt the danger. No one said a word and soon we were driving into an opening in the mountain. I had never noticed it before.
It was cold and damp at first, but soon opened into a large chamber with every need we may have.
I stood to the side and waited to be told what to do, for this was beyond my scope of experience. I hated that too! I sat on the floor after an hour, but the cold was intense.
I saw a coffee center and headed that way, where doughnuts and coffee were available in major amounts. I took two doughnuts and a large cup of coffee with cream and sugar. I sat with the chaplain and we began to discuss trivialities and then I offered my help until they found a job for me. He agreed readily and went for another chair for me.
Time passed and I slept with my head on my arms until an alarm rang out. Jumping to my feet, I was pushed back down by a lab coated man.
"Stay down!" I stayed.
A disembodied voice came over the loud speaker after the alarms stopped. "We are under attack by aliens. Stay where you are if you are safe or head to the mountain if you are in the open. The mountain is safe."
***
Days passed and no one left or arrived. We heard explosions outside, but they had stopped a day before. I suggested that we listen at the cave entrance for activity. They found headphones and attached them to a super stethoscope device. I heard nothing, but authorities listened as well.
The cave entrance was opened and troops filed out to inspect the area. All was gone; not one building still stood. There were strange markings on the surface of the ground and the side of the mountain.
The generals decided they looked like a dog, so also decided that Pluto had contacted us.
I told them that Pluto was a dog only in Disney films, but no one listened.
I served out my time in the mountain and then left for a position in teaching at a place called Area 51. Maybe it wouldn't be as boring...
My seams were crooked and I was late to the lab. I was the first woman scientist at the base and I couldn't allow things like this to happen! I ran. My high heels had been made specially for me with thicker heels and small straps to keep them in place for times like this.
I flew through the door right under the wire and the head lab tech frowned at me, but what else was new? He felt I was wasting myself as a woman and when would I have babies? Sheesh!
I was monitoring communications, okay - sounds, from outer space. That is all I did. I sat at a desk and wore uncomfortable headphones and listened. Boring and fruitless to date, but it was my field and I did it proudly.
The door banged open and I didn't need to look up to see that it was the military who governed the base. I was never sought out for my mind, but for my looks. I buttoned my lab coat over my bountiful bosom and slumped over. I also made sure my skirt was well over my knees.
They ignored me today. It seemed that something was afoot. I slid off one headphone and listened. I heard Pluto and Spaceship X and a few other words worthy of note.
***
Evening had arrived and the suitors came with it. Each day I would have close to a dozen suitors vying for my time and they would walk me home hoping for an invitation inside. All were denied. I had to hide inside every night with the lights low or off and sit close to the small black and white set or radio for a little fun.
I made sure to cook foods that weren't enticing, as well. Life here was a big bore with bouts of fighting off men. I was ready to leave, but had a few months left to fulfill my contract so I wasn't blacklisted.
Bed was calling me and a Reader's Digest book. I turned on my reading lamp and was asleep before I finished page one.
***
I was shaken from the bed and threw my hands up, thinking it an over ambitious man. All I saw was a red glow outside the window. I grabbed my robe, slid into my slippers and pulled up the blinds. The hillside was flaming. The phone began to ring and I grabbed it.
A rude and abrupt voice said, "Get dressed! A jeep will be there in five minutes and we are evacuating." The line disconnected.
I put on slacks, a blouse and a cardigan sweater and chose socks and loafers. A scarf covered my hair and my handbag was on my arm. That would have to do for now.
A jeep squealed to a stop and I hopped inside. A soldier fastened a safety belt on me and we were off.
The ride was bumpy and dangerous, but something was driving us forward. I didn't know what it was, but felt the danger. No one said a word and soon we were driving into an opening in the mountain. I had never noticed it before.
It was cold and damp at first, but soon opened into a large chamber with every need we may have.
I stood to the side and waited to be told what to do, for this was beyond my scope of experience. I hated that too! I sat on the floor after an hour, but the cold was intense.
I saw a coffee center and headed that way, where doughnuts and coffee were available in major amounts. I took two doughnuts and a large cup of coffee with cream and sugar. I sat with the chaplain and we began to discuss trivialities and then I offered my help until they found a job for me. He agreed readily and went for another chair for me.
Time passed and I slept with my head on my arms until an alarm rang out. Jumping to my feet, I was pushed back down by a lab coated man.
"Stay down!" I stayed.
A disembodied voice came over the loud speaker after the alarms stopped. "We are under attack by aliens. Stay where you are if you are safe or head to the mountain if you are in the open. The mountain is safe."
***
Days passed and no one left or arrived. We heard explosions outside, but they had stopped a day before. I suggested that we listen at the cave entrance for activity. They found headphones and attached them to a super stethoscope device. I heard nothing, but authorities listened as well.
The cave entrance was opened and troops filed out to inspect the area. All was gone; not one building still stood. There were strange markings on the surface of the ground and the side of the mountain.
The generals decided they looked like a dog, so also decided that Pluto had contacted us.
I told them that Pluto was a dog only in Disney films, but no one listened.
I served out my time in the mountain and then left for a position in teaching at a place called Area 51. Maybe it wouldn't be as boring...
44 - Luxury of Fruit - J.F. Hire
He gave me grapes last night. It wasn't expected, honestly. Since I got this gig with the government, I expected there to be a little more money coming in, or at least some perks. In the end, I was stuck with creepier men, worse pay, but protection. We needed protection, us workers. Before the overhaul, we were left to the whim of pimps and serial killers. Now, we had everything we needed to stay alive.
Behind the one-way-mirror were several men watching me do my job. They probably envied the grapes I was eating and the wine I was drinking. I'm sure there would be an investigation into the matter of the grapes soon enough-- but only after my job was done.
Grape-man and myself had nothing in common. He was rich and off the grid, and I was poor and government-employed. City meets Country, in some way. But we both were here for the same reason: to get his rocks off.
While Grape-man took to his own rhythm of push and pull, I counted the number of grapes left, sneaking more with each new position. They burst in my mouth and paired well with the delicate Ciante. I recall bygone days when my late husband bought me wine, fed me grapes, and we made love in the back yard under the canopy of stars created from holiday lights. The beauty of such slow movements, flirting after years of being together, craning our necks to better kiss one another.
That was before the Ripper Genocide-- before women became an endangered species, and the men who fought for their honor were turned to dust from years of poisoning.
Grape-man had come and gone, leaving me with an empty branch of grapes and the frothy left-overs of a bottle of wine. Once he slid the bits of gold onto the night-stand, he bowed and left-- as if some regal encounter had been made.
These days, what women were left were a privilege to those who could afford their company. They were a limited resource, thus they were controlled by the government. I found a rogue grape on the floor, dusted off the AstroTurf specks, and ate it. We can't let things like these go to waste.
Behind the one-way-mirror were several men watching me do my job. They probably envied the grapes I was eating and the wine I was drinking. I'm sure there would be an investigation into the matter of the grapes soon enough-- but only after my job was done.
Grape-man and myself had nothing in common. He was rich and off the grid, and I was poor and government-employed. City meets Country, in some way. But we both were here for the same reason: to get his rocks off.
While Grape-man took to his own rhythm of push and pull, I counted the number of grapes left, sneaking more with each new position. They burst in my mouth and paired well with the delicate Ciante. I recall bygone days when my late husband bought me wine, fed me grapes, and we made love in the back yard under the canopy of stars created from holiday lights. The beauty of such slow movements, flirting after years of being together, craning our necks to better kiss one another.
That was before the Ripper Genocide-- before women became an endangered species, and the men who fought for their honor were turned to dust from years of poisoning.
Grape-man had come and gone, leaving me with an empty branch of grapes and the frothy left-overs of a bottle of wine. Once he slid the bits of gold onto the night-stand, he bowed and left-- as if some regal encounter had been made.
These days, what women were left were a privilege to those who could afford their company. They were a limited resource, thus they were controlled by the government. I found a rogue grape on the floor, dusted off the AstroTurf specks, and ate it. We can't let things like these go to waste.
The Luxury of Fruit - RT Shores
The Greatest Joy of Summer - Fresh Fruit!
We landed in an empty field. The dry earth was no match for our thrusters and was soon covering everything. There were folks running our way with fists in the air. I had wondered if landing would cause trouble. It had. We would have to pay premium prices now.
I opened the landing doors and held out cases of protein bars. The crowd quieted, but the fruit man was raging at us.
"You will pay double this time!" He was doing this for show, for we always paid double or triple.
"What do you have today?" My mouth was already watering.
"Peaches, watermelon, melons and some berries." He stood tall an proud. Not everyone could make stuff grown in this ground.
My partner, the copilot, was staring and wondering what he was looking at.
I pointed to each item and he started pulling out his pay chip. He had never spent a point, so he was loaded and we planned on buying all the fruit he could afford.
We wiped out the stand and even bought fruit that wasn't the freshest for canning.
People ran as we approached the skimmer and covered their heads when we clicked the engines on. Flying away, I looked at the dry ground and then spied the patches of green with fruit trees and other treasures. They were heavily guarded. Fruit was the last natural luxury left on earth. The baskets we had today were equivalent to the price of a car in the early 21st century.
Back on board, we were also heavily guarded. This I had paid for. There was no reason to go to all the expense if we were attacked immediately on reentry to the ship. We stored it all in our quarters and then sat down with a peach between us. It had been decontaminated and I cut into it, but made sure to literally lick up all the juice.
I gave the copilot a slim slice and he groaned and drooled. I gave him the rest of his half and he licked each finger clean and his section of the table.
"When can we have more?"
"Tonight we can have another peach, okay?" He nodded, but I could see that he had 'fruit eyes' and told him to go ahead, for I knew I would have to change the lock combo or he would eat it all and die.
I caught up to him and we were soon surrounded by our coworkers. Suddenly we had friends. My partner was buying it, especially from the more attractive females, but I just gave one nut twist and all my male 'friends' disappeared.
***
I stayed up all night making preserves or jams with the older fruit and the aroma was painful. I made my suffering partner a piece of toast and some blackberry preserves and he was soon swooning and then fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Sneaking into the bathroom, I brought a handle full of older berries and ate each on private and in silence. The fruit exploded in my mouth and I savored every warm drop. Fruit was heaven, ambrosia and the ultimate pleasure. I fell asleep, but made myself rise and hit the bed instead.
***
We worked late the next day and made sure to have toast with jam again. Our dry locker would keep the fruit fresh for quite awhile and the goods I canned would last for weeks at least.
Work was tedious and long and we ran back to our quarters, which had been broken into. We secured the door, for our hidey holes had not been disturbed. We checked our stashes and then rewarded ourselves with half each of a tiny watermelon. They would go bad the fastest, so we had to eat them when sliced. I would then make watermelon rind pickles, for nothing went to waste in space.
***
The weeks went by and the attacks continued, but they never found the stash. We each invited one friend to share the larger watermelon and then we all slept for hours. The human body just couldn't handle fructose like one hundred years earlier. You would sleep or some would even become comatose. We were really protecting folks, right?
The fruit was gone and I breathed a sigh of relief. We still had cases of jars of jams and pickles, so we were in fine shape and no one knew what those were, so we were much safer as well.
The partner was saving all his pay again and this time for vegetables. He had heard of them and now wanted to buy us everything we could find. We would have to wait for that season, but I was already planning a no waste campaign for every type we may come across.
I planned to parcel out our jams until the next fruit season, for the luxury of fruit had me in its grip and wouldn't let go.
"You will pay double this time!" He was doing this for show, for we always paid double or triple.
"What do you have today?" My mouth was already watering.
"Peaches, watermelon, melons and some berries." He stood tall an proud. Not everyone could make stuff grown in this ground.
My partner, the copilot, was staring and wondering what he was looking at.
I pointed to each item and he started pulling out his pay chip. He had never spent a point, so he was loaded and we planned on buying all the fruit he could afford.
We wiped out the stand and even bought fruit that wasn't the freshest for canning.
People ran as we approached the skimmer and covered their heads when we clicked the engines on. Flying away, I looked at the dry ground and then spied the patches of green with fruit trees and other treasures. They were heavily guarded. Fruit was the last natural luxury left on earth. The baskets we had today were equivalent to the price of a car in the early 21st century.
Back on board, we were also heavily guarded. This I had paid for. There was no reason to go to all the expense if we were attacked immediately on reentry to the ship. We stored it all in our quarters and then sat down with a peach between us. It had been decontaminated and I cut into it, but made sure to literally lick up all the juice.
I gave the copilot a slim slice and he groaned and drooled. I gave him the rest of his half and he licked each finger clean and his section of the table.
"When can we have more?"
"Tonight we can have another peach, okay?" He nodded, but I could see that he had 'fruit eyes' and told him to go ahead, for I knew I would have to change the lock combo or he would eat it all and die.
I caught up to him and we were soon surrounded by our coworkers. Suddenly we had friends. My partner was buying it, especially from the more attractive females, but I just gave one nut twist and all my male 'friends' disappeared.
***
I stayed up all night making preserves or jams with the older fruit and the aroma was painful. I made my suffering partner a piece of toast and some blackberry preserves and he was soon swooning and then fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Sneaking into the bathroom, I brought a handle full of older berries and ate each on private and in silence. The fruit exploded in my mouth and I savored every warm drop. Fruit was heaven, ambrosia and the ultimate pleasure. I fell asleep, but made myself rise and hit the bed instead.
***
We worked late the next day and made sure to have toast with jam again. Our dry locker would keep the fruit fresh for quite awhile and the goods I canned would last for weeks at least.
Work was tedious and long and we ran back to our quarters, which had been broken into. We secured the door, for our hidey holes had not been disturbed. We checked our stashes and then rewarded ourselves with half each of a tiny watermelon. They would go bad the fastest, so we had to eat them when sliced. I would then make watermelon rind pickles, for nothing went to waste in space.
***
The weeks went by and the attacks continued, but they never found the stash. We each invited one friend to share the larger watermelon and then we all slept for hours. The human body just couldn't handle fructose like one hundred years earlier. You would sleep or some would even become comatose. We were really protecting folks, right?
The fruit was gone and I breathed a sigh of relief. We still had cases of jars of jams and pickles, so we were in fine shape and no one knew what those were, so we were much safer as well.
The partner was saving all his pay again and this time for vegetables. He had heard of them and now wanted to buy us everything we could find. We would have to wait for that season, but I was already planning a no waste campaign for every type we may come across.
I planned to parcel out our jams until the next fruit season, for the luxury of fruit had me in its grip and wouldn't let go.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Speed of Time - RT Shores
Time Flies When You Get Older; Or Does It?
I am a brain ship, but not the kind of the Anne McCaffrey books. I am a maintenance brain ship. What does that mean? My life is tedium.
I need some adventure! My pilot's idea of adventure was making a planet run in record time, but that was nothing to me, I need real adventure.
My credits had been accumulating for sixty years or more, so I had plenty for a body, but then what? What age do I want? Twenty? Forty? I had to decide before we reached Teminus for it was as final as it sounded; the end of my tour and the end of me.
Well, I was getting a body.
My pilot discussed it with me and said if I was to his liking, I could stay on with him. Ha! He would be that lucky! He was so boring.
Hm, I scanned catalogs of the best new pilots and chose one which now determined that I would pick the age of thirty.
I was downloaded at Terminus and paid extra to be handled by experts, for in transfer, you could be lost forever.
The body viewing room was busy with all us sixty year olds, but most wanted twenty year olds, so my section was better.
I chose average everything except hair. I wanted long blue black hair. My instillation was scheduled for two hours away so I dcided to shop for a shipsuit when I was able to depart.
My transport to the operating theater was quick and I bid them farewell as I felt power drugs take over.
Shrieking alarms awakened me and then there were screams of agony; my own, I figured.
"What went wrong?" A disembodid voice queried.
"All we can surmise is that this is her DNA, maybe a daughter."
"Will she survive?"
"Rejection is strong and she isn't stable enough to transfer out to another body yet."
I was in my daughter's body? How does that happen? I just knew there was pain and other words I had never head before. I slept.
"We think she will make it." The team sighed.
I made it, but wasn't prepared for what a body was/is. One thing was for sure though, time was flying by. Months were falling off the calendar and life was a challenge now.
My brain was used to instantaneous responses and now it had to wait for my body to perform the actions. It was painful and I had constant headaches. They said I would get used to it eventually.
My brain was used to instantaneous responses and now it had to wait for my body to perform the actions. It was painful and I had constant headaches. They said I would get used to it eventually.
I began to interview with pilots, but none were sharp enough for me. I hated to interview with my old pilot, but I did.
He didn't know me, nor that I had been his 'brain', so we were on level ground. My physical skills and reflexes were slow and he noticed.
"It's you in a body, right?"
"Yep, and it is much harder than I thought it would be." I saw him nod to that.
"Yeah, they don't tell you that part. I think we should just team up again and you will find that the boring runs aren't so boring when you are getting used to having a body. If and when you tire of me, leave. I won't require a contract. Deal?"
How did he know so much? "Were you once a brain, pilot?" He nodded.
"Yes and I understand most of what you are going through, so I figure we can be friends and I will help you through it. Time will seem faster now and the boring of old won't be the same. You will find new boring eventually.
I understood now. I joined with my pilot but as near equals now and at last count we had been together over eighty years.
"Yeah, they don't tell you that part. I think we should just team up again and you will find that the boring runs aren't so boring when you are getting used to having a body. If and when you tire of me, leave. I won't require a contract. Deal?"
How did he know so much? "Were you once a brain, pilot?" He nodded.
"Yes and I understand most of what you are going through, so I figure we can be friends and I will help you through it. Time will seem faster now and the boring of old won't be the same. You will find new boring eventually.
I understood now. I joined with my pilot but as near equals now and at last count we had been together over eighty years.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
42 - Speed of Time - J.F. Hire
Simony didn't perceive things as a normal person did. When he turned five, it was as if merely a second had passed since birth. Such as a blur, or when someone shifts their gaze from one area to another. This change was imperceptible. As he moved from one house to another, his mind barely picked up on the different walls or steps. As if on autopilot, he didn't let such changes trip him.
Perhaps it was his parents who pointed it out first. Without them, he would never have realized what he was missing out on. Things called 'moments' were passing, and had passed. His parent's memories were so very solid to them, which was quite different with him. His memories were as malleable and variable as a dream-scape. Most of his memories were, in fact, intermingled with dreams, and his dreams with memories. A sort of worry grew in his parents when he described what he missed most about the old house:
"I do miss the old house, it was so big and fun. I could run from one end of the house to the other and hide without anyone hearing my space. I used the pully-thingy and went into the basement, trying not to squeak. And then the mice were there, trying to help me under the stairs and into the brown tunnel of quilts and light bulbs. You never came with me though, I wanted to show you..."
His parents looked to one another, knowing full-well of the condo that they lived in previously. Large, yes. Multi-level with a basement? No. Much less did they have a basement where mice were who could guide a child into a non-existent tunnel full of bulbs and blankets.
Psychologists didn't bother much with this case:
"Well, Mister and Missus Dawnson, these things pass. He'll acclimate himself by grade-school. He'll fit right in. Times are changing, folks, and instead of merely one or two imaginary friends-- kids have whole worlds that they imagine. I suggest, to cut down on these imaginings, that you remove such stimuli as iPhones and tablets... Hmm?"
He sat there, telling them this and that about the psychological trends of children since the twenties. They felt patronized, but they had paid ahead. They were going to get their money's worth.
It was a waiting game, and finally grade school was approaching.
"Mom, where are we?"
"What, honey? Well we're on the way to school, on Preston Road."
"But where is that?"
"It's between home and school."
"Oh... Where am I, then?"
"You're in a car, sweetheart. What are you thinking about?"
"I dunno. I wanted to know. Are we in the same place?"
"Haha, yes, sweet. Same car, same road, same city."
"Does that mean that you're me?"
She was just silent for a while, rather creeped out by this exchange.
"Well, we're in different seats, so no. We can't be in the same place at once."
"Oh. What if I don't like school?"
She sighed, relieved by this more reasonable conversation, removed from the existential crisis he was on the verge of before.
The days went by, and he did art, and practiced writing, and learned addition. Art went up on the fridge, his parents explained simple addition, swelling with pride and confidence in themselves and their child. A few neighbors that they had made friends with came by, admiring the artwork on the fridge.
"Oh that is so cute! He did this one too, with all of the people standing next to each other?"
"Yea, well, I think his teacher helped. I think it was for a kind of self portrait."
"That's really neat. He's got some talent--"
Another neighbor chimed in. "That's a really conceptual portrait. To express oneself as more than one person, that's some transcendental influence-- who is the teacher?"
"Uh... Jones. Missus Jones. Yea, I think she helped. A lot."
The focus went from the artwork to the appetizers. Missus Dawnson stared at the art for a long while, just out of the corner of her eye. The night seemed to fly past.
--
"I just wanted to touch base and meet with you two again to discuss your child's progress in my class."
Missus Jones seemed more cheerful on the phone than now. Her hands were wrought together, almost white-knuckled. A tension rose in a nervousness in her voice.
"Yes? Is there anything wrong? How is he doing?" Missus Dawnson asked, her own blood pressure rising from the vibe in the room.
Missus Jones made herself relax some, chuckling. "Not at all, he's just very interesting, is all. Did you see the painting we sent home with him recently?"
"Oh, yes, the portrait? It was a real big hit at our house-warming party." The couple smiled to one another.
"Yes. I'm sure! Has he talked about it at all?"
"No, not really, why do you ask?"
"Well, he couldn't stop talking about it in class." Another nervous chuckle. "Would you care to watch him in class? We videotape sessions, for security and surveillance purposes only..."
"Oh, sure!"
The recording began on the tablet, fast-forwarding through what looked like the other class-mates standing in front of the class to present their paintings. Their son came up, and the tape slowed. The teacher's recorded voice began:
"Go on, Simony."
"It's me."
"Of course, and who is everyone else?"
"But there isn't anyone else. It's just me."
"But the other figures... The people. Who is that?" She points to a random figure on the paper.
"Me!"
This exchange went on rather relentlessly, to the point of tension for the parents. At first they were leaning forward, with a bit of a smile, listening and watching intently. After a moment, they leaned up, staring. Soon, they were looking from the corners of their eyes, leaning back and holding hands.
"Yes. So, it seems that he knows how interesting he is."
His parents felt the quotes around the word 'interesting'.
"But you've seen this kind of thing before, I bet." The father offered.
"Well, sure, but not as much. More of an identity confusion, not so much of this, where he seems certain that he is all of the figures in the picture.
"What does it mean?" The mother almost whispered.
"I'm not sure. Hah, I'm sure it's no big deal-- but I wanted to share it. Are you okay, Missus Dawnson?"
"I just... Need water."
--
That night, as they tucked their son into bed, they presented the portrait, asking him what his teacher had asked him.
"Who is everyone else?"
"It's me." He even pointed to each figure. "Me."
"But what do you mean? You drew yourself a lot of times?"
"Yea, but I dunno. It's me and others, I guess. They have different clothes, see? And some are girls."
"But you can't be more than one person, sweetheart. Did you get confused by the project?"
"No! She said that we could paint who we are! And it's me!"
That night, they couldn't make much more sense of him, and soon, he was softly crying himself to sleep. They too fell asleep with heavy hearts, for having hurt their son with such a barrage of questions, all out of fear.
"Maybe it's one of those neuro-colds..."
"They don't last this long..."
"We need help."
":Let's just sleep."
--
Now he was where he would be comfortable, with people like him, with people who knew what he was going through. In a quaint little town, in a happy little complex, in a sweet little community of similar minded folk.
"I think they're new."
"Well, they're never really 'new', Simony."
"True... But I've never them personally before."
"True, I think that they fit in."
"Well, of course. They always have."
"I think that we should introduce ourselves."
The two young men laughed, nodding at the joke. In this place, everyone already knew each other-- at least as well as they knew themselves.
The newcomer approached them, sitting down.
"It's taken me a while, I know. But I'm glad to be back."
Everyone settled into their seats after making room for the newcomer and sitting in a comfortable silence among the others on the patio. Small chit-chat took place, as they exercised their verbal skills.
Everyone already knew what the others were thinking, though. Now, ask them if they were psychic, and you'd get a laugh.
To you, these people could read one another's minds.
To them, you just didn't know what they were thinking, yet.
[The shot zooms out, and a hand-made banner flutters on a flagstaff reading: University of Universal Consciousness."]
Perhaps it was his parents who pointed it out first. Without them, he would never have realized what he was missing out on. Things called 'moments' were passing, and had passed. His parent's memories were so very solid to them, which was quite different with him. His memories were as malleable and variable as a dream-scape. Most of his memories were, in fact, intermingled with dreams, and his dreams with memories. A sort of worry grew in his parents when he described what he missed most about the old house:
"I do miss the old house, it was so big and fun. I could run from one end of the house to the other and hide without anyone hearing my space. I used the pully-thingy and went into the basement, trying not to squeak. And then the mice were there, trying to help me under the stairs and into the brown tunnel of quilts and light bulbs. You never came with me though, I wanted to show you..."
His parents looked to one another, knowing full-well of the condo that they lived in previously. Large, yes. Multi-level with a basement? No. Much less did they have a basement where mice were who could guide a child into a non-existent tunnel full of bulbs and blankets.
Psychologists didn't bother much with this case:
"Well, Mister and Missus Dawnson, these things pass. He'll acclimate himself by grade-school. He'll fit right in. Times are changing, folks, and instead of merely one or two imaginary friends-- kids have whole worlds that they imagine. I suggest, to cut down on these imaginings, that you remove such stimuli as iPhones and tablets... Hmm?"
He sat there, telling them this and that about the psychological trends of children since the twenties. They felt patronized, but they had paid ahead. They were going to get their money's worth.
It was a waiting game, and finally grade school was approaching.
"Mom, where are we?"
"What, honey? Well we're on the way to school, on Preston Road."
"But where is that?"
"It's between home and school."
"Oh... Where am I, then?"
"You're in a car, sweetheart. What are you thinking about?"
"I dunno. I wanted to know. Are we in the same place?"
"Haha, yes, sweet. Same car, same road, same city."
"Does that mean that you're me?"
She was just silent for a while, rather creeped out by this exchange.
"Well, we're in different seats, so no. We can't be in the same place at once."
"Oh. What if I don't like school?"
She sighed, relieved by this more reasonable conversation, removed from the existential crisis he was on the verge of before.
The days went by, and he did art, and practiced writing, and learned addition. Art went up on the fridge, his parents explained simple addition, swelling with pride and confidence in themselves and their child. A few neighbors that they had made friends with came by, admiring the artwork on the fridge.
"Oh that is so cute! He did this one too, with all of the people standing next to each other?"
"Yea, well, I think his teacher helped. I think it was for a kind of self portrait."
"That's really neat. He's got some talent--"
Another neighbor chimed in. "That's a really conceptual portrait. To express oneself as more than one person, that's some transcendental influence-- who is the teacher?"
"Uh... Jones. Missus Jones. Yea, I think she helped. A lot."
The focus went from the artwork to the appetizers. Missus Dawnson stared at the art for a long while, just out of the corner of her eye. The night seemed to fly past.
--
"I just wanted to touch base and meet with you two again to discuss your child's progress in my class."
Missus Jones seemed more cheerful on the phone than now. Her hands were wrought together, almost white-knuckled. A tension rose in a nervousness in her voice.
"Yes? Is there anything wrong? How is he doing?" Missus Dawnson asked, her own blood pressure rising from the vibe in the room.
Missus Jones made herself relax some, chuckling. "Not at all, he's just very interesting, is all. Did you see the painting we sent home with him recently?"
"Oh, yes, the portrait? It was a real big hit at our house-warming party." The couple smiled to one another.
"Yes. I'm sure! Has he talked about it at all?"
"No, not really, why do you ask?"
"Well, he couldn't stop talking about it in class." Another nervous chuckle. "Would you care to watch him in class? We videotape sessions, for security and surveillance purposes only..."
"Oh, sure!"
The recording began on the tablet, fast-forwarding through what looked like the other class-mates standing in front of the class to present their paintings. Their son came up, and the tape slowed. The teacher's recorded voice began:
"Go on, Simony."
"It's me."
"Of course, and who is everyone else?"
"But there isn't anyone else. It's just me."
"But the other figures... The people. Who is that?" She points to a random figure on the paper.
"Me!"
This exchange went on rather relentlessly, to the point of tension for the parents. At first they were leaning forward, with a bit of a smile, listening and watching intently. After a moment, they leaned up, staring. Soon, they were looking from the corners of their eyes, leaning back and holding hands.
"Yes. So, it seems that he knows how interesting he is."
His parents felt the quotes around the word 'interesting'.
"But you've seen this kind of thing before, I bet." The father offered.
"Well, sure, but not as much. More of an identity confusion, not so much of this, where he seems certain that he is all of the figures in the picture.
"What does it mean?" The mother almost whispered.
"I'm not sure. Hah, I'm sure it's no big deal-- but I wanted to share it. Are you okay, Missus Dawnson?"
"I just... Need water."
--
That night, as they tucked their son into bed, they presented the portrait, asking him what his teacher had asked him.
"Who is everyone else?"
"It's me." He even pointed to each figure. "Me."
"But what do you mean? You drew yourself a lot of times?"
"Yea, but I dunno. It's me and others, I guess. They have different clothes, see? And some are girls."
"But you can't be more than one person, sweetheart. Did you get confused by the project?"
"No! She said that we could paint who we are! And it's me!"
That night, they couldn't make much more sense of him, and soon, he was softly crying himself to sleep. They too fell asleep with heavy hearts, for having hurt their son with such a barrage of questions, all out of fear.
"Maybe it's one of those neuro-colds..."
"They don't last this long..."
"We need help."
":Let's just sleep."
--
Now he was where he would be comfortable, with people like him, with people who knew what he was going through. In a quaint little town, in a happy little complex, in a sweet little community of similar minded folk.
"I think they're new."
"Well, they're never really 'new', Simony."
"True... But I've never them personally before."
"True, I think that they fit in."
"Well, of course. They always have."
"I think that we should introduce ourselves."
The two young men laughed, nodding at the joke. In this place, everyone already knew each other-- at least as well as they knew themselves.
The newcomer approached them, sitting down.
"It's taken me a while, I know. But I'm glad to be back."
Everyone settled into their seats after making room for the newcomer and sitting in a comfortable silence among the others on the patio. Small chit-chat took place, as they exercised their verbal skills.
Everyone already knew what the others were thinking, though. Now, ask them if they were psychic, and you'd get a laugh.
To you, these people could read one another's minds.
To them, you just didn't know what they were thinking, yet.
[The shot zooms out, and a hand-made banner flutters on a flagstaff reading: University of Universal Consciousness."]
Friday, July 19, 2013
41 - Doctor Who - J.F. Hire
The tremendous whirring and undulating was approaching from somewhere. Juniper wasn't sure if it was from the East or West, perhaps from above. What she didn't know, though, was that this sound didn't approach from anywhere, but instead, anywhen.
Perhaps she and her people should have expected this arrival. At least, they knew to expect the unexpected-- which certainly included this odd happenstance.
Ever since the first anomaly of cows disappearing and the children growing a foot overnight (all of them), the people as far as the East gate knew that something was amiss. They also knew that they had no idea what or why it was happening. After accepting this truth, and assuming that it was all merely the work of a God who had no care for his creations, they merely grew bitter, and highly adaptable. These are the reasons why, when he arrived, they barely bat an eye.
As the police box arrived, phasing into existence, the doors rattled, creaked, and opened. Your average human walked out, and landed on the not-so-soil-like land, immediately turning his attention to his footing.
"Nice shoes, rubbish ground. Whose ground is this?" His upturned face met only one curious observer. While attempting to not take this lack of an audience personally, he approached her.
"Your ground, then?"
"No, I'm Juniper. We all till this ground." She began to walk away, not in a fleeing manner, but in a way to suggest that she had better to do than talk to this run-of-the-mill fellow.
"Oh, Juniper? Mind if I tag along? I do love to tag along. Ehm... Is anything wrong?" His eyes gazed about, taking in the surroundings, his form turning a full rotation as he walked with Juniper. He partially hoped she would notice this feat of maneuverability. Amidst his free-wielding feet, were tiny dogs and cats trampling similarly tiny blades of grass. Adorable, yes. But still so wrong. Higher up, he heard, and was similarly startled by a roar that deafened him momentarily. A low-dipping decline of a roller coaster road overhead. While he flinched, she walked on toward wherever she was going.
The roller coaster, sticking out like a huge, spirally, bright orange and tender thumb in the grassy farmland of what seemed to imitate some European village at the turn of the last century, this roller coaster disturbed him.
"Anything wrong at all?" He repeated, all such observations pounding his logic at the speed of said coaster.
"Not at all, mind if I smoke?" She pulled out a hefty cigar-- this dainty woman, perhaps only seventeen, lugging out, clipping off, and lighting up this sort of Cubano. His frown was everpresent.
"Not at all... Ehm, where are we exactly?" His eyes took in a few more surroundings. There was one ten-story office building in the middle of a rice paddy, where some raptors squealed from within, trying to escape the Towering Inferno which they resided.
"So what are you following me for? It's quite uncouth." She offered, turning to meet his glance momentarily.
"Oh, well I don't have to-- is it odd for me to follow you? Why is that? I don't understand... My following you is the most odd thing to happen today?"
"All year, at least. We do like to keep to ourselves, us Highlandonians."
He certainly hadn't heard of such a place. "Do you have some kind of... leader? Or city building?"
"We have The Con." She pointed toward the large patch of geraniums, surrounded by wires and static-filled air. Stopping to take a look, he nodded. "Oh, much obliged." But she was already gone-- somewhere.
He arrived at what she called The Con within moments of heading there, his speed remaining a mystery to him. Hidden on the ground, within all of the flowers and weeds, was a very large screen, laying flat and flush with the ground. His features melted into one of more curiosity than worry. The weeds, though, covered the screen almost entirely. With hollow gongs of footsteps on the glass front, he kicked and kicked weeds and wires aside, to reveal the 5x5 foot screen on the floor of the Earth.
His confusion returned, only to be compounded, rewritten, and unraveled within moments. Beneath him, she screen read:
Please choose a character: Male/Female
Please enter a name: __________
Please choose a race: [Click to choose]
When you are complete, click HERE and your game will begin. Thank you for choosing Vireal Gaming, and remember: "Use Your Imagination."
She he was in a video game. Or, was the video game augmenting the reality around him... Was he actually on Earth, or was he within a program?
His questions were answered when he looked up to the sky. "Well I'll be..."
From looking up, the sky revealed a large, ever-changing image of a variety of people sitting in rooms staring down at them. As if he were inside of a television, looking out, he saw that they were looking in-- holding controllers, computer mice, joysticks, keyboards, all rattling and clicking and button-pushing this reality into existence.
And so The Doctor sat. He began to ponder.
"Mystery solved, I suppose... But does that mean that I've trapped myself in this virtual reality? Does it mean that I must save the people in here, or the people out there? Why did the TARDIS bring me to such a place? I'd hate to think it... But Juniper sure seemed real. I'd hate to wonder..."
He returned to the TARDIS, clicking and turning and pulling and twisting her to life. Practically ready, he began to stare up into the shell surrounding the heart of the TARDIS.
"So am I part of their imagination?"
Perhaps she and her people should have expected this arrival. At least, they knew to expect the unexpected-- which certainly included this odd happenstance.
Ever since the first anomaly of cows disappearing and the children growing a foot overnight (all of them), the people as far as the East gate knew that something was amiss. They also knew that they had no idea what or why it was happening. After accepting this truth, and assuming that it was all merely the work of a God who had no care for his creations, they merely grew bitter, and highly adaptable. These are the reasons why, when he arrived, they barely bat an eye.
As the police box arrived, phasing into existence, the doors rattled, creaked, and opened. Your average human walked out, and landed on the not-so-soil-like land, immediately turning his attention to his footing.
"Nice shoes, rubbish ground. Whose ground is this?" His upturned face met only one curious observer. While attempting to not take this lack of an audience personally, he approached her.
"Your ground, then?"
"No, I'm Juniper. We all till this ground." She began to walk away, not in a fleeing manner, but in a way to suggest that she had better to do than talk to this run-of-the-mill fellow.
"Oh, Juniper? Mind if I tag along? I do love to tag along. Ehm... Is anything wrong?" His eyes gazed about, taking in the surroundings, his form turning a full rotation as he walked with Juniper. He partially hoped she would notice this feat of maneuverability. Amidst his free-wielding feet, were tiny dogs and cats trampling similarly tiny blades of grass. Adorable, yes. But still so wrong. Higher up, he heard, and was similarly startled by a roar that deafened him momentarily. A low-dipping decline of a roller coaster road overhead. While he flinched, she walked on toward wherever she was going.
The roller coaster, sticking out like a huge, spirally, bright orange and tender thumb in the grassy farmland of what seemed to imitate some European village at the turn of the last century, this roller coaster disturbed him.
"Anything wrong at all?" He repeated, all such observations pounding his logic at the speed of said coaster.
"Not at all, mind if I smoke?" She pulled out a hefty cigar-- this dainty woman, perhaps only seventeen, lugging out, clipping off, and lighting up this sort of Cubano. His frown was everpresent.
"Not at all... Ehm, where are we exactly?" His eyes took in a few more surroundings. There was one ten-story office building in the middle of a rice paddy, where some raptors squealed from within, trying to escape the Towering Inferno which they resided.
"So what are you following me for? It's quite uncouth." She offered, turning to meet his glance momentarily.
"Oh, well I don't have to-- is it odd for me to follow you? Why is that? I don't understand... My following you is the most odd thing to happen today?"
"All year, at least. We do like to keep to ourselves, us Highlandonians."
He certainly hadn't heard of such a place. "Do you have some kind of... leader? Or city building?"
"We have The Con." She pointed toward the large patch of geraniums, surrounded by wires and static-filled air. Stopping to take a look, he nodded. "Oh, much obliged." But she was already gone-- somewhere.
He arrived at what she called The Con within moments of heading there, his speed remaining a mystery to him. Hidden on the ground, within all of the flowers and weeds, was a very large screen, laying flat and flush with the ground. His features melted into one of more curiosity than worry. The weeds, though, covered the screen almost entirely. With hollow gongs of footsteps on the glass front, he kicked and kicked weeds and wires aside, to reveal the 5x5 foot screen on the floor of the Earth.
His confusion returned, only to be compounded, rewritten, and unraveled within moments. Beneath him, she screen read:
Please choose a character: Male/Female
Please enter a name: __________
Please choose a race: [Click to choose]
When you are complete, click HERE and your game will begin. Thank you for choosing Vireal Gaming, and remember: "Use Your Imagination."
She he was in a video game. Or, was the video game augmenting the reality around him... Was he actually on Earth, or was he within a program?
His questions were answered when he looked up to the sky. "Well I'll be..."
From looking up, the sky revealed a large, ever-changing image of a variety of people sitting in rooms staring down at them. As if he were inside of a television, looking out, he saw that they were looking in-- holding controllers, computer mice, joysticks, keyboards, all rattling and clicking and button-pushing this reality into existence.
And so The Doctor sat. He began to ponder.
"Mystery solved, I suppose... But does that mean that I've trapped myself in this virtual reality? Does it mean that I must save the people in here, or the people out there? Why did the TARDIS bring me to such a place? I'd hate to think it... But Juniper sure seemed real. I'd hate to wonder..."
He returned to the TARDIS, clicking and turning and pulling and twisting her to life. Practically ready, he began to stare up into the shell surrounding the heart of the TARDIS.
"So am I part of their imagination?"
40 - Oddities in the service industry - J.F. Hire
"Oh, Joshua. Do hurry up with the table setting. There will be twelve people attending the soiree."
Joshua did as he was told, taking six bundles of gilded cutlery, wrapped within silk napkins laced delicately in soft coral. Upon setting each down on the table, he recited a few theories. In the nearly empty dining hall, he muttered things about quantum mechanics and string theory. His maintanance manager overheard this.
"Enough of that talk, help me re-dress the chairs to match the the hostess specifications."
"Yes'm."
--
Beck lugged a large haul today, from room to room, replacing the pent-house linens and making his way to the final destination. Upon arriving at the dining room, he supplied the mistress of events with the new dining room chair covers. They had to be spot treated the night before. Beck was in the cleaning room until two in the morning, scrubbing red wine, sauces, and cheeses out of the arms of the covers.
What got him through this lonesome and tedious work was whenever he took a break, he would get back to working on his most recent thesis paper; a discourse on the recent activity in the metropolitan population and its relationship to the evolution of man.
The highlight of his night was finally removing the stain resulting from some sort of couscous. In retrospect, his MBA was probably going to waste.
--
The guests were arriving, right on time, according to the mistress of services
"Do get on with it, bring those buckets from the hall. Decorum, please!" She chided, rushing through toward the doors to notify the front of house butlers to greet and guide the guests to the dining hall.
"But do so slowly, elegantly. Of course." She would leave him to it and head down the service stairs to meet the head server face-first, shouting immediately upon impact.
"OH GOODNESS! DO avoid this behavior in the future, Tricia! We cannot have you bounding up these stairs like a lugging wildebeast! My scarf!" She bustled off to have her hankie steamed down the way.
Tricia nodded and sighed, apologizing through gritted teeth-- correcting her own scarves and uniform. Her schedule told her that she would be meeting the guests with open eyes and smiles in less than four minutes. And as she began to stretch out her cheeks for more of a perky disposition, she reflected on her years in the chemistry labs in Sweden, and wondered how everyone was fairing since she had to find a job which paid better.
--
"Do you think that they really paint all these paintings, Honey?"
"I bet that one's a print... Hold on, let me touch it."
The butler interrupted, "These pieces are all original works, manufactured the way Giovanni intended, and are beyond a glass which we suggest you not touch. And we're walking..."
"Wonder if he's a real butler... Looks a little thin to me. Are butlers supposed to be fat? BARBRA! C'mere! No, don't worry, your dress will drag anyway. Does that butler look like a fraud to you?"
"Oh, I dunno, looks like he's butlering to me. Hey, what's for dinner by the way?"
"Well, whatever you want, pudding-cup. It's just a matter of choice. We'll spare no expense to serve our little angel whatever she wants."
"Awww, thanks ma. But I don't wanna just take advantage... HEY Do you think that they have goose-stuffed lobster?"
"Ohhh, I hope so! HEY BUTLER, Do you have LOBSTER?!"
The guests lagged behind, and Burton the Butler trudged on, counting the paces it took from one end of the hall to the entrance of the dining hall, supposing that the simulacra that these guests suspected may not be as apparent as their frontal cortex may have suggested.
"Of course, Lady Lottery."
"Hah, that's right. WE'RE ALL GETTIN' LOBSTER!"
"Mom, why DID you change your name?"
"Why not? May as well make it obvious after you win the lottery-- easier to ensure that when someone robs you, people expect it and can jump on the case!"
--
That very night there was a robbery, Lady Lottery left with only her lobster and family, just after the lights went down. Sure, she had savings put in several secret places, but she had a pretty hefty wad of cash on her at the time.
What can she do, though? Times are tough. And what with the service industry full of bitterly over-qualified individuals, it only takes one to find the courage to take from the rich and give to themselves.
Joshua did as he was told, taking six bundles of gilded cutlery, wrapped within silk napkins laced delicately in soft coral. Upon setting each down on the table, he recited a few theories. In the nearly empty dining hall, he muttered things about quantum mechanics and string theory. His maintanance manager overheard this.
"Enough of that talk, help me re-dress the chairs to match the the hostess specifications."
"Yes'm."
--
Beck lugged a large haul today, from room to room, replacing the pent-house linens and making his way to the final destination. Upon arriving at the dining room, he supplied the mistress of events with the new dining room chair covers. They had to be spot treated the night before. Beck was in the cleaning room until two in the morning, scrubbing red wine, sauces, and cheeses out of the arms of the covers.
What got him through this lonesome and tedious work was whenever he took a break, he would get back to working on his most recent thesis paper; a discourse on the recent activity in the metropolitan population and its relationship to the evolution of man.
The highlight of his night was finally removing the stain resulting from some sort of couscous. In retrospect, his MBA was probably going to waste.
--
The guests were arriving, right on time, according to the mistress of services
"Do get on with it, bring those buckets from the hall. Decorum, please!" She chided, rushing through toward the doors to notify the front of house butlers to greet and guide the guests to the dining hall.
"But do so slowly, elegantly. Of course." She would leave him to it and head down the service stairs to meet the head server face-first, shouting immediately upon impact.
"OH GOODNESS! DO avoid this behavior in the future, Tricia! We cannot have you bounding up these stairs like a lugging wildebeast! My scarf!" She bustled off to have her hankie steamed down the way.
Tricia nodded and sighed, apologizing through gritted teeth-- correcting her own scarves and uniform. Her schedule told her that she would be meeting the guests with open eyes and smiles in less than four minutes. And as she began to stretch out her cheeks for more of a perky disposition, she reflected on her years in the chemistry labs in Sweden, and wondered how everyone was fairing since she had to find a job which paid better.
--
"Do you think that they really paint all these paintings, Honey?"
"I bet that one's a print... Hold on, let me touch it."
The butler interrupted, "These pieces are all original works, manufactured the way Giovanni intended, and are beyond a glass which we suggest you not touch. And we're walking..."
"Wonder if he's a real butler... Looks a little thin to me. Are butlers supposed to be fat? BARBRA! C'mere! No, don't worry, your dress will drag anyway. Does that butler look like a fraud to you?"
"Oh, I dunno, looks like he's butlering to me. Hey, what's for dinner by the way?"
"Well, whatever you want, pudding-cup. It's just a matter of choice. We'll spare no expense to serve our little angel whatever she wants."
"Awww, thanks ma. But I don't wanna just take advantage... HEY Do you think that they have goose-stuffed lobster?"
"Ohhh, I hope so! HEY BUTLER, Do you have LOBSTER?!"
The guests lagged behind, and Burton the Butler trudged on, counting the paces it took from one end of the hall to the entrance of the dining hall, supposing that the simulacra that these guests suspected may not be as apparent as their frontal cortex may have suggested.
"Of course, Lady Lottery."
"Hah, that's right. WE'RE ALL GETTIN' LOBSTER!"
"Mom, why DID you change your name?"
"Why not? May as well make it obvious after you win the lottery-- easier to ensure that when someone robs you, people expect it and can jump on the case!"
--
That very night there was a robbery, Lady Lottery left with only her lobster and family, just after the lights went down. Sure, she had savings put in several secret places, but she had a pretty hefty wad of cash on her at the time.
What can she do, though? Times are tough. And what with the service industry full of bitterly over-qualified individuals, it only takes one to find the courage to take from the rich and give to themselves.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Oddities in the Service Industry - RT Shores
The Concierge
He was sweating and knew that his Master found this highly unacceptable. He turned, blotted and then resumed the appearance: steel-spined, nose slightly in the air and an ever knowing look.
The next client would be his, alone. Master would oversee, but the fledgling concierge would handle everything himself.
An aged woman began a slow approach to the desk and he knew not to judge by appearances, so was solicitous.
"May I assist you, Madam?"
She nodded and asked him to bend down to her five foot height. "I need assistance in purchasing my products."
"Yes, Ma'am." He said without any reluctance.
She handed him a folded magazine ad and as he smoothed it, she said. "Suite 440."
He nodded and went to work ordering her incontinence supplies. No problem.
His next clients were bachelor party guests. The party was all set, but the strippers had cancelled. They would need three strippers; blonde, brunette and redhead.
Strippers ordered, he made rounds of the lobby, looking for someone who was searching for most anything. He found no one.
The delivery service stopped by the desk and asked for room 440. He decided to go with them, for he would not allow her to be embarrassed.
She was at least five minutes coming to the door and he dismissed the courier. He would handle this himself. She opened the door and allowed him to enter.
The sweeping vista of Central Park took his breath away. He suddenly realized who she was; the widow of the owner of the hotel property and financier, Mr. Able Goodman.
"Young man?" She gestured to a chair with the best view of the park. "Is this the first time you have seen the view from here?
"Yes, Ma'am and this is amazing!" He could have sat there for many hours per day and knew that she did.
"May I stow your items for you?"
She nodded. "I still haven't found a new maid since Clary died. I don't have the heart to replace here."
"When you are ready, I will help you with the particulars and investigation of applicants."
"Thank you young man. You may 'stow' as you call it, in the bathroom closet, but on the low shelves, please." She smiled.
Her suite was from another era and was as Art Deco as he had ever seen. Everything needed a good freshening though. The sheen on the fifteen foot satin drapes had become drab long ago and the carpets were worn through in a few places. She had the money, but did not have the trust to have people in to see her. He would help.
As he was leaving, she handed him a very old classified ad, 'To Hire: Domestic'. The particulars would have to be made acceptable to the times, like 'Colored Woman acceptable with references'.
"Make it modern, do the preliminary interview and investigation and then be with me when I interview each woman. I think a final three is appropriate. What do you think?"
"Three to five, but no more." She nodded and I scurried back to the desk and even the Master's look changed when I showed him the ad.
"We have been quite worried about her for several years. This is wonderful! I will contact my connections at NYPD for the quiet, an extremely thorough, background checks. I would like to be part of the initial interviews."
"Yes, sir. I was hoping you would want to."
"I feel obligated." The Master bowed his head momentarily.
***
We reserved a small meeting room for the initial interviews, but most were completely unsuitable: gum poppers, heavily painted faces, glued to cell phones and loud talkers. We narrowed it down to twelve who warranted testing and investigation. Full checks would be done on only three to five women.
Three middle aged women made the cut, in every way and we began the interviews with Mrs. Goodman.
One of the three was immediately disqualified when she walked into the suite and said, 'God damn! Look at that view!' She was hurried away.
The last two seemed perfect and would be hard to choose from.
Mrs. Goodman couldn't decide either, so she hired both. This was quite fortunate since the women were twins, fifty years old and very able bodied and ready to make the tattered home a glowing example of Art Deco.
***
Back at the desk, the usual requests were voiced or given to us in tiny folded notes. Did we fulfill all requests? Mostly, but some were so illegal or dangerous, we had to bow out.
What are our favorites? Special food requests are fun and challenging. 'My wife is pregnant and wants some sausage gravy an melon!' Easy!
'My son wants peanut butter an cherry preserves and a glass of cherry Kool aid!' Also easy!
***
Mrs. Goodman's suite was beautiful at her wake. She willed the suite to the hotel and its maintenance and jobs for life to her two domestics. There was a notation that the young Concierge, me, should stay in the suite at least once per month to make sure it stayed immaculate.
Strippers ordered, he made rounds of the lobby, looking for someone who was searching for most anything. He found no one.
The delivery service stopped by the desk and asked for room 440. He decided to go with them, for he would not allow her to be embarrassed.
She was at least five minutes coming to the door and he dismissed the courier. He would handle this himself. She opened the door and allowed him to enter.
The sweeping vista of Central Park took his breath away. He suddenly realized who she was; the widow of the owner of the hotel property and financier, Mr. Able Goodman.
"Young man?" She gestured to a chair with the best view of the park. "Is this the first time you have seen the view from here?
"Yes, Ma'am and this is amazing!" He could have sat there for many hours per day and knew that she did.
"May I stow your items for you?"
She nodded. "I still haven't found a new maid since Clary died. I don't have the heart to replace here."
"When you are ready, I will help you with the particulars and investigation of applicants."
"Thank you young man. You may 'stow' as you call it, in the bathroom closet, but on the low shelves, please." She smiled.
Her suite was from another era and was as Art Deco as he had ever seen. Everything needed a good freshening though. The sheen on the fifteen foot satin drapes had become drab long ago and the carpets were worn through in a few places. She had the money, but did not have the trust to have people in to see her. He would help.
As he was leaving, she handed him a very old classified ad, 'To Hire: Domestic'. The particulars would have to be made acceptable to the times, like 'Colored Woman acceptable with references'.
"Make it modern, do the preliminary interview and investigation and then be with me when I interview each woman. I think a final three is appropriate. What do you think?"
"Three to five, but no more." She nodded and I scurried back to the desk and even the Master's look changed when I showed him the ad.
"We have been quite worried about her for several years. This is wonderful! I will contact my connections at NYPD for the quiet, an extremely thorough, background checks. I would like to be part of the initial interviews."
"Yes, sir. I was hoping you would want to."
"I feel obligated." The Master bowed his head momentarily.
***
We reserved a small meeting room for the initial interviews, but most were completely unsuitable: gum poppers, heavily painted faces, glued to cell phones and loud talkers. We narrowed it down to twelve who warranted testing and investigation. Full checks would be done on only three to five women.
Three middle aged women made the cut, in every way and we began the interviews with Mrs. Goodman.
One of the three was immediately disqualified when she walked into the suite and said, 'God damn! Look at that view!' She was hurried away.
The last two seemed perfect and would be hard to choose from.
Mrs. Goodman couldn't decide either, so she hired both. This was quite fortunate since the women were twins, fifty years old and very able bodied and ready to make the tattered home a glowing example of Art Deco.
***
Back at the desk, the usual requests were voiced or given to us in tiny folded notes. Did we fulfill all requests? Mostly, but some were so illegal or dangerous, we had to bow out.
What are our favorites? Special food requests are fun and challenging. 'My wife is pregnant and wants some sausage gravy an melon!' Easy!
'My son wants peanut butter an cherry preserves and a glass of cherry Kool aid!' Also easy!
***
Mrs. Goodman's suite was beautiful at her wake. She willed the suite to the hotel and its maintenance and jobs for life to her two domestics. There was a notation that the young Concierge, me, should stay in the suite at least once per month to make sure it stayed immaculate.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Hoarding Pre-1900 - RT Shores
The Farm News
Today we are interviewing Mrs. Brown, wife of John Brown and an acknowledged hoarder.
Mrs. Brown? What do you hoard or keep?
Why, most anything, sir! My favorite things are bits of candles and charred wood from the fire. You can do so much with them! I also make sure to use the wax from the honeycomb after I get all the honey. It is so useful!
What do you do with the wax?
I make candles, use it to seal my canning jars, wax my husband's mustache on Sunday and seal envelopes.
I heard that you reuse thread as well. What do you do with used thread?
I baste with used thread. No reason to use new thread when you are just going to rip it out. I also save all fabrics for my quilts, but most of us farm wives do that.
What do you do with feed sacks?
Feed sacks? Well, there isn't too much to do with them because they are so rough, but it makes good bedding on top of hay for the stock or a lost stranger.
We heard that you found a way to to soften it and make clothes.
What? No, no, not yet, but I am trying that.
May we see your storage room?
There are different storage sections for different products, like fabric items have to be dry, so the attic for in the basement, they would rot from the wet.
Your attic is full of seed sacks!
I am going to learn a way to use them, so I keep them. It is better than throwing them in the trash heap.
Do you throw anything away?
Hm, not anything I can think of, no.
Are you a hoarder?
Today is the first time I heard of that word, so I don't know.
If I were to ask for one for your feed sacks, would you give me one?
If you were going to use it, sure, but if you wanted it to throw it away or waste it, no.
I don't think Mrs. Brown is a hoarder. I think Mrs. Brown is a smart farmer's wife to makes use of any and everything.
Today we are interviewing Mrs. Brown, wife of John Brown and an acknowledged hoarder.
Mrs. Brown? What do you hoard or keep?
Why, most anything, sir! My favorite things are bits of candles and charred wood from the fire. You can do so much with them! I also make sure to use the wax from the honeycomb after I get all the honey. It is so useful!
What do you do with the wax?
I make candles, use it to seal my canning jars, wax my husband's mustache on Sunday and seal envelopes.
I heard that you reuse thread as well. What do you do with used thread?
I baste with used thread. No reason to use new thread when you are just going to rip it out. I also save all fabrics for my quilts, but most of us farm wives do that.
What do you do with feed sacks?
Feed sacks? Well, there isn't too much to do with them because they are so rough, but it makes good bedding on top of hay for the stock or a lost stranger.
We heard that you found a way to to soften it and make clothes.
What? No, no, not yet, but I am trying that.
May we see your storage room?
There are different storage sections for different products, like fabric items have to be dry, so the attic for in the basement, they would rot from the wet.
Your attic is full of seed sacks!
I am going to learn a way to use them, so I keep them. It is better than throwing them in the trash heap.
Do you throw anything away?
Hm, not anything I can think of, no.
Are you a hoarder?
Today is the first time I heard of that word, so I don't know.
If I were to ask for one for your feed sacks, would you give me one?
If you were going to use it, sure, but if you wanted it to throw it away or waste it, no.
I don't think Mrs. Brown is a hoarder. I think Mrs. Brown is a smart farmer's wife to makes use of any and everything.
39 - Hoarding Pre-1900's - J.F. Hire
"I'd rather not talk about those silly emotions at hand,
Leave me to my chalks and things that I collect."
"It really isn't practical, keeping this and that for good.
You should try to be more matter-of-factual, sometimes you have to throw things away."
"If I threw them away, then where would they go?
I'd find them on the bay, or in the middle of oceans.
What do you say? I won't throw your things away."
"Well certainly, you better not. If you do, you're surely to be punished!
That is beside the point, and I'm getting hot, you don't understand that my things are better."
"Better or worse, to each their own. I'll keep my things and you keep yours.
Perhaps there's even a chance that we'll get a bigger home, and then we'll have more room for both."
Several days pass for Elise and Little Bess,
Until Elise realizes that she lacks her stack of beetle eyes.
"Oh Bess, do you know? My jar of red and blue pearl eyes is not here.
I know that you did not throw, my dear sister, these things into the bin."
"Well perhaps the same could be asked about my fifteen and a half ribbons,
They were in my hair, and now they've passed, now they're no longer in my grasp."
"Now, now, my sister. Don't get poetic.
You know how it makes you sound so pathetic."
"ME? Pathetic?! Oh, now that is crass. I'll have you know that those eyes are in the trash!"
"How DARE you!? Well if you must fret, those ribbons are gone-- as are all the barrettes."
"I figured as much, and just for the sake, I've ribbed all your dresses and sent them to the lake."
"WELL then, my sister. See how it feels! I've beat you to the punch and burnt your precious wooden eels."
And they fought, so distraught. Fighting in rhyme. They fought in the morning, fighting and crying.
They fought and they cried, never to realize, that as they remove these things,
They have more room for feelings on the outside.
38 - Snail Mail - J.F. Hire
Steven the Mailman was a snail. He was the reason for how slow things took to get places. He was the reason behind stamps, because without them, he would have to pay the postage-- an he's really been doing a service.
He begins at the end of the street, following his own dried path of slime from the days before. On a good day, he got to all of the houses before sundown. On a bad day, some of his deliveries get stuck in his slime. He found out the hard way that it was better to not deliver it than to deliver a slimy envelope.
By midday he is sulking up the sidewalk, his tan hat and khaki shell near my own house. I watch carefully for him to drop my things, or if he'll run into the salty dogs in my neighbor's yard. Mailmen hated dogs, around here.
My mail arrives, but that's only half of the fun. I step to the box while he delivers it, and we chat.
"How's the weather, Steve?"
"Oh, it's fine, Brandy. Hope it stays that way tomorrow."
"Oh, I do too, it's a shame about the Johnsons, isn't it?"
"Sure is, I thought that they'd live there forever, foreclosure is a pain."
"Well, thanks for my mail, and keep an eye out for those packages that seem so slow to get here."
"Will do, Brandy. See ya tomorrow."
And he slithers on, sluggish at times. Other times he is a speedy devil, traveling at the speed of a geriatric salamander. Today there's a letter from the PCH. Here's to hoping I won!
---------
Steven arrives home, bag in tow, and slime nearly dried up from the sun and sand estuaries. Practically in his plastic-covered recliner, he sits bag, bag at hand, and begins to dump out the remains.
"Missus James' letter from the Adoption Services... Oh goodness me. Let's take a peek."
A few letters later, a pile of opened ones accruing to his left, he opens yet another.
"Tyler Andrews, you've been writing some steamy stuff to Elizabeth Rayes. ... You know that the missus doesn't deserve this... Perhaps this one got lost."
He tosses that letter in the bin, opening the final 9x11 envelope.
"Little Frankie, getting a letter from Yarvle University? Oh... Well perhaps I'll wait to give him this one when he gets into another college."
As the rush of opening another person's mail subsides, he begins to sag in his chair like a drying raisin. A bit of a dip in mood overwhelming him. He decides to busy himself by re-sealing the envelopes with his own slime.
"Good as new."
Before stuffing them back into his back for another day, he notices a rogue letter, small, at the bottom of the bag. With anticipation, he reaches for it with whatever appendage he could manage, and read the addressee: "Steven Snail."
"Hmm... Where did this one come from...?" There was no return address.
And he reads: "Dear Steven, we of the community would like to thank you for your services. Each day you brighten our mood and lift our hearts. No matter how long it takes, we always get our mail. Mister Putter would like to personally thank you for the way you manage to get him his mail just before his coffee so he can read it at an appropriate time. Alex Incine is delighted that you were able to attend this luncheon celebrating the new house down the road. And me, Rita Skrum, would like to ask, on behalf of the whole neighborhood, for you to stop reading our mail. With Love, Your patrons."
"Hm..."
He sets this letter aside for another day. Perhaps it too got lost in the post.
He begins at the end of the street, following his own dried path of slime from the days before. On a good day, he got to all of the houses before sundown. On a bad day, some of his deliveries get stuck in his slime. He found out the hard way that it was better to not deliver it than to deliver a slimy envelope.
By midday he is sulking up the sidewalk, his tan hat and khaki shell near my own house. I watch carefully for him to drop my things, or if he'll run into the salty dogs in my neighbor's yard. Mailmen hated dogs, around here.
My mail arrives, but that's only half of the fun. I step to the box while he delivers it, and we chat.
"How's the weather, Steve?"
"Oh, it's fine, Brandy. Hope it stays that way tomorrow."
"Oh, I do too, it's a shame about the Johnsons, isn't it?"
"Sure is, I thought that they'd live there forever, foreclosure is a pain."
"Well, thanks for my mail, and keep an eye out for those packages that seem so slow to get here."
"Will do, Brandy. See ya tomorrow."
And he slithers on, sluggish at times. Other times he is a speedy devil, traveling at the speed of a geriatric salamander. Today there's a letter from the PCH. Here's to hoping I won!
---------
Steven arrives home, bag in tow, and slime nearly dried up from the sun and sand estuaries. Practically in his plastic-covered recliner, he sits bag, bag at hand, and begins to dump out the remains.
"Missus James' letter from the Adoption Services... Oh goodness me. Let's take a peek."
A few letters later, a pile of opened ones accruing to his left, he opens yet another.
"Tyler Andrews, you've been writing some steamy stuff to Elizabeth Rayes. ... You know that the missus doesn't deserve this... Perhaps this one got lost."
He tosses that letter in the bin, opening the final 9x11 envelope.
"Little Frankie, getting a letter from Yarvle University? Oh... Well perhaps I'll wait to give him this one when he gets into another college."
As the rush of opening another person's mail subsides, he begins to sag in his chair like a drying raisin. A bit of a dip in mood overwhelming him. He decides to busy himself by re-sealing the envelopes with his own slime.
"Good as new."
Before stuffing them back into his back for another day, he notices a rogue letter, small, at the bottom of the bag. With anticipation, he reaches for it with whatever appendage he could manage, and read the addressee: "Steven Snail."
"Hmm... Where did this one come from...?" There was no return address.
And he reads: "Dear Steven, we of the community would like to thank you for your services. Each day you brighten our mood and lift our hearts. No matter how long it takes, we always get our mail. Mister Putter would like to personally thank you for the way you manage to get him his mail just before his coffee so he can read it at an appropriate time. Alex Incine is delighted that you were able to attend this luncheon celebrating the new house down the road. And me, Rita Skrum, would like to ask, on behalf of the whole neighborhood, for you to stop reading our mail. With Love, Your patrons."
"Hm..."
He sets this letter aside for another day. Perhaps it too got lost in the post.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Snail Mail - RT Shores
Most of this generation's young folks may never know the joys of receiving a real letter by US mail.
Ah! It is postmarked and dirty and crumpled and from another state!
What could be inside?
A letter, hand-written in cursive?
A photo on 'genuine Kodak paper'?
You never knew...
A dollar, crisp from the bank and hidden in another sheet of paper?
A comic strip, clipped from another cities newspaper, often in black and white, but nonetheless exciting.
Now snail mail tends to be junk mail and sales fliers.
Ah! It is postmarked and dirty and crumpled and from another state!
What could be inside?
A letter, hand-written in cursive?
A photo on 'genuine Kodak paper'?
You never knew...
A dollar, crisp from the bank and hidden in another sheet of paper?
A comic strip, clipped from another cities newspaper, often in black and white, but nonetheless exciting.
Now snail mail tends to be junk mail and sales fliers.
I do wonder why many ATM's carry stamps...
Why are folks upset that the USPS wants to stop mail delivery on Saturday? I get the worst mail on Saturday and it is a day when you can absolutely nothing about anything business related.
Anyway, I love mail; real mail!
"Did the mail run yet?"
"Has the mailman come yet?"
You know the very best thing that can happen when you check the mail? You receive a letter, a real letter, handwritten and it is from a friend or relative! Wonderful!
Will snail mail disappear? I hope not...
Why are folks upset that the USPS wants to stop mail delivery on Saturday? I get the worst mail on Saturday and it is a day when you can absolutely nothing about anything business related.
Anyway, I love mail; real mail!
"Did the mail run yet?"
"Has the mailman come yet?"
You know the very best thing that can happen when you check the mail? You receive a letter, a real letter, handwritten and it is from a friend or relative! Wonderful!
Will snail mail disappear? I hope not...
Monday, July 8, 2013
37 - Surprise Ending - J.F. Hire
"Hi doc. How've you been..." June seemed to think that this didn't need to be much of a question, the pleasantries a bit beyond her at this point in life.
"I'm well. But let's talk about you... How have you been since last week? I trust that the paperwork arrived recently?" He sat on his annoyingly swiveling chair. To her, this chair was one of the factors in why she was here. To her docs, this was considered cognitive disassociation.
"Yea, of course. Nothing like email to let someone know they're dying." She quipped, smirking darkly to herself.
"We never concluded that, Juniper."
"Don't call me that. Mom called me that."
"I'm sorry, June. Can we talk about what the tests suggest?"
"Sure. Tell me what I don't know, though."
He began, pointing to graphs which were held close to her face.
"We can point out where the degeneration began, just localized to the cerebellum. Your occipital lobe was injured at some point it seems, and is taking the brunt of the disease."
"So that means I'm going blind. You know... Had you told me that a few years ago, I wouldn't have even gotten glasses." Another dark smile sent a ripple of wrinkles along her features.
"June, don't be so snide, really. We're only here to help you in this... transitional situation. Now. My associates and I predict that this will have one of two outcomes."
"I'll either die now or die later." She interjects, leaning back against the paper-wrapped pillow behind her.
"Well, we all die, June. Sooner or later. But we've discovered that there will be indicators, some which you are experiencing now-- but some which may not reveal themselves for years, even decades!"
She decided to humor him, fiddling the thick glasses in her spindly fingers. "Go on, doc."
"Well, you see, first we have experienced the degeneration in the eyes, legs, and visual synapses, which explains your lack of images in dreams, or their distorted nature."
She was repulsed that he would say 'we', as if he too were haunted by images with no meaning, or that he endured the pain of brightness where there was no light.
"Now, in the future..."
As if there were a future,
"...we will begin to experience nerve degeneration of a different sort. Your fingertips, toes, face, groin... and stuff of that nature, will lose feeling."
"Is that so," her blueish nails dragged along the papery film of the bedding, watching for him to squirm as many oft did in the presence of such a sound.
"And, as far off as that is, there will be more. Your taste buds will decrease, your sense of smell will cease in turn, and your axillary functions will slow to a stop: that is to say that your hair, nails, and skin will begin to weaken or fall out until they stop regenerating."
"That's when I join the Little Miss Sunshine pageant, right?"
"Well, maybe ten years ago... I suppose there are some pageants that you could join for young adults, though."
She detested when he took her sarcasm seriously.
"Now, as with previous cases, the few final stages of this disease are noted by several changes: memory loss, frequent disorientation, and reclusive behavior." He began to suspect that she wasn't listening-- but his oath drove him to offer this information to the best of his ability, however reluctant this young woman was. To him, she was already dead-- waiting for the toe-tag as she reclined before him in a slumping husk of skeletal remains.
"Do you understand what I mean, June?"
"Of course, Doc. I also understand that I need to sign some forms?"
"Of course... Here. If you choose to begin medicating, contact our offices and we will square you away."
"Of course."
"I'm well. But let's talk about you... How have you been since last week? I trust that the paperwork arrived recently?" He sat on his annoyingly swiveling chair. To her, this chair was one of the factors in why she was here. To her docs, this was considered cognitive disassociation.
"Yea, of course. Nothing like email to let someone know they're dying." She quipped, smirking darkly to herself.
"We never concluded that, Juniper."
"Don't call me that. Mom called me that."
"I'm sorry, June. Can we talk about what the tests suggest?"
"Sure. Tell me what I don't know, though."
He began, pointing to graphs which were held close to her face.
"We can point out where the degeneration began, just localized to the cerebellum. Your occipital lobe was injured at some point it seems, and is taking the brunt of the disease."
"So that means I'm going blind. You know... Had you told me that a few years ago, I wouldn't have even gotten glasses." Another dark smile sent a ripple of wrinkles along her features.
"June, don't be so snide, really. We're only here to help you in this... transitional situation. Now. My associates and I predict that this will have one of two outcomes."
"I'll either die now or die later." She interjects, leaning back against the paper-wrapped pillow behind her.
"Well, we all die, June. Sooner or later. But we've discovered that there will be indicators, some which you are experiencing now-- but some which may not reveal themselves for years, even decades!"
She decided to humor him, fiddling the thick glasses in her spindly fingers. "Go on, doc."
"Well, you see, first we have experienced the degeneration in the eyes, legs, and visual synapses, which explains your lack of images in dreams, or their distorted nature."
She was repulsed that he would say 'we', as if he too were haunted by images with no meaning, or that he endured the pain of brightness where there was no light.
"Now, in the future..."
As if there were a future,
"...we will begin to experience nerve degeneration of a different sort. Your fingertips, toes, face, groin... and stuff of that nature, will lose feeling."
"Is that so," her blueish nails dragged along the papery film of the bedding, watching for him to squirm as many oft did in the presence of such a sound.
"And, as far off as that is, there will be more. Your taste buds will decrease, your sense of smell will cease in turn, and your axillary functions will slow to a stop: that is to say that your hair, nails, and skin will begin to weaken or fall out until they stop regenerating."
"That's when I join the Little Miss Sunshine pageant, right?"
"Well, maybe ten years ago... I suppose there are some pageants that you could join for young adults, though."
She detested when he took her sarcasm seriously.
"Now, as with previous cases, the few final stages of this disease are noted by several changes: memory loss, frequent disorientation, and reclusive behavior." He began to suspect that she wasn't listening-- but his oath drove him to offer this information to the best of his ability, however reluctant this young woman was. To him, she was already dead-- waiting for the toe-tag as she reclined before him in a slumping husk of skeletal remains.
"Do you understand what I mean, June?"
"Of course, Doc. I also understand that I need to sign some forms?"
"Of course... Here. If you choose to begin medicating, contact our offices and we will square you away."
"Of course."
Sunday, July 7, 2013
36 - My Space Ship - J.F. Hire
This is my life, from left to right:
To the far left of the reverse thrust controls, I have my morning coffee-- or evening coffee, my clock stopped working a few years ago, and it's a pain to get AAA batteries out here. Underneath my coffee sits the most recent issues of GlobeGeo, surveying a number of planets in the working federation and issuing a listing of the variety of animals. Honestly, I think that a majority of these animals are like your typical EarthThings: cats, dogs, elephants, whales, bugs. There are a shit ton of bugs out there in space.
I think that I'm getting off-topic. Was I talking about my coffee? Well, I like to keep nearby a stack of soluble cubes for that saccharin illusion. Sure, YOU may think it's gross, but I have reason to believe that it's not gonna kill me any faster than the fake air I'm breathing or the box I'm floating around in.
The thrusters stick sometimes. Especially the reverse ones on the left. I don't really enjoy having to kick it into action, but hey-- it's exercise in the end. If I don't kick it after igniting the reversers, there tends to be a pretty scary fragrance of burning rubber. The mechs don't seem to bother repairing these things-- they're too preoccupied with their re-runs of John Wayne films in the make-shift cinema aftward.
So that's my left. In the middle I have the general display. It's a bit smudged with food and drink and other things. I'd hate to bore you with the details, but let's just say that you could probably clone a few things and people from the stuffs on these things. I've got alot of buttons, too. They're all worn down and rounded by now since I started-- but hey, it's characteristic I think. I also think that I should get the mechs to repair some of these too. I worry that if life-support fails that I wouldn't be able to initiate the backup system... I'm not sure that I remember which button that is anymore.
There's a lovely screen, too. It's bright green with some sort of antique-y finish to it. Fake gold and interesting filigree scrolled along the top, while the text on the prompt is in a goofy comic sans font. I suppose it's intended to keep the driver at ease while telling them to make evasive maneuvers through the oncoming asteroids.
I don't want to talk about the trash under the middle of my workstation. Let's move on to the right.
Here we have all of my pass-times. I have string that I tie into knots, an old game system called a Texas Instrument. It enjoys maths, even though I don't. I like to test it. I also have a scribbleboard that I play tic-tac-toe on day to day. That is to say that I play with myself with this very intellectual tactic in mind, but then when the opponent (also me) makes the next move, then I cannot remember my own tactic, and so, in the end, it's all very hard to predict.
Underneath those things are all of the handles for steering and grav fields and alert systems. I'm sure there are a few alert bulbs in need of replacing, but for now I just listen closely for that whirring that turns it on. No casualties yet.
I'd like to see where you work. Do you mind if I come by sometime? I am jealous of the robot you have on board. That game you play, Man-O-Polly? Is the robot any good? My Texas Instruments doesn't seem as much fun as yours.
You know what, I'm gonna come by.. If you see a green ship any time soon, don't panic-- it's just me. You'd let a penpal like me aboard to make you lunch, right?
Until then,
Traveling Stu.
To the far left of the reverse thrust controls, I have my morning coffee-- or evening coffee, my clock stopped working a few years ago, and it's a pain to get AAA batteries out here. Underneath my coffee sits the most recent issues of GlobeGeo, surveying a number of planets in the working federation and issuing a listing of the variety of animals. Honestly, I think that a majority of these animals are like your typical EarthThings: cats, dogs, elephants, whales, bugs. There are a shit ton of bugs out there in space.
I think that I'm getting off-topic. Was I talking about my coffee? Well, I like to keep nearby a stack of soluble cubes for that saccharin illusion. Sure, YOU may think it's gross, but I have reason to believe that it's not gonna kill me any faster than the fake air I'm breathing or the box I'm floating around in.
The thrusters stick sometimes. Especially the reverse ones on the left. I don't really enjoy having to kick it into action, but hey-- it's exercise in the end. If I don't kick it after igniting the reversers, there tends to be a pretty scary fragrance of burning rubber. The mechs don't seem to bother repairing these things-- they're too preoccupied with their re-runs of John Wayne films in the make-shift cinema aftward.
So that's my left. In the middle I have the general display. It's a bit smudged with food and drink and other things. I'd hate to bore you with the details, but let's just say that you could probably clone a few things and people from the stuffs on these things. I've got alot of buttons, too. They're all worn down and rounded by now since I started-- but hey, it's characteristic I think. I also think that I should get the mechs to repair some of these too. I worry that if life-support fails that I wouldn't be able to initiate the backup system... I'm not sure that I remember which button that is anymore.
There's a lovely screen, too. It's bright green with some sort of antique-y finish to it. Fake gold and interesting filigree scrolled along the top, while the text on the prompt is in a goofy comic sans font. I suppose it's intended to keep the driver at ease while telling them to make evasive maneuvers through the oncoming asteroids.
I don't want to talk about the trash under the middle of my workstation. Let's move on to the right.
Here we have all of my pass-times. I have string that I tie into knots, an old game system called a Texas Instrument. It enjoys maths, even though I don't. I like to test it. I also have a scribbleboard that I play tic-tac-toe on day to day. That is to say that I play with myself with this very intellectual tactic in mind, but then when the opponent (also me) makes the next move, then I cannot remember my own tactic, and so, in the end, it's all very hard to predict.
Underneath those things are all of the handles for steering and grav fields and alert systems. I'm sure there are a few alert bulbs in need of replacing, but for now I just listen closely for that whirring that turns it on. No casualties yet.
I'd like to see where you work. Do you mind if I come by sometime? I am jealous of the robot you have on board. That game you play, Man-O-Polly? Is the robot any good? My Texas Instruments doesn't seem as much fun as yours.
You know what, I'm gonna come by.. If you see a green ship any time soon, don't panic-- it's just me. You'd let a penpal like me aboard to make you lunch, right?
Until then,
Traveling Stu.
My Space Ship
The Scooter
"I just need one to scoot around the city." The new shopper said.
"Uh, huh." I replied, pretending that was a normal request.
"What colors are available?"
I hung my head, pretending to check the catalog. There were no colors.
"Just chrome, Ma'am."
"I will look like everyone else!"
I just stared. She was an idiot and the first of the ultra rich who could afford their own spacecraft. Throngs of idiots would soon be around the building.
It was a trial program to see if there would be interest. There was/is. How was I to tell them that these were fully equipped spacecraft that could travel to far galaxies and destroy small planetoids with one blast.
I turned the client over to my boss and was told to meet the sales rep behind the building. He was a sleazoid, so I checked for my blaster and cut through the storage bays so I would have the advantage.
He was looking for me at my usual exit point so I was able to check for his cronies or other
I turned the client over to my boss and was told to meet the sales rep behind the building. He was a sleazoid, so I checked for my blaster and cut through the storage bays so I would have the advantage.
He was looking for me at my usual exit point so I was able to check for his cronies or other
unsavory characters. Nothing looked amiss, so I ran across and exited as expected.
"Reever! Good to see you! Look what I have for you!" He gestured to the row of small spacecraft.
"I've seen them and I am trying to figure a way to sell them."
"Problems? Come inside and I will show you all and it will be a easy sell to every rich fool you know!"
It was the height of two autos from the 20th century, but wider and longer. He pushed his watch and a lift slid down as the door slid up. We walked up the slight incline and it smelled like 'new car', a scent we bought to spray old spacecraft. It looked brand new on the inside which it did not on the outside.
There were two navigation/piloting seats in the front and two larger, more comfortable looking seats right past a small walkway. It was a tight fit for walking, but it could be done. There was a toilet in the back and a tiny galley near it. Every space was for storage, otherwise.
I sat in the captain's seat and looked at the controls. I knew where the weapons button should be, but it had been painted over. All that was visible were navigation controls.
The rep sealed us in and said, "Let's take her up!"
My time in the Sea Wars was about to pay off, for we had used these 'shuttles' many times. I headed to the Drylands and opened her up. She was in good shape. I pressed the covered blaster buttons and took out a few dry plants.
"You are going to actually disconnect these, right?" I asked.
He pressed his watch again. "Try it out."
Nothing. Good. I could just see some crazy road rage with blaster weapons fired by blue-haired old women going out to Haiku tea.
"Why did they really decide to sell these?" I asked.
"There are thousands of them and some have never been used. They will go to the males. The female's needs are so mundane, that they won't need them. This way the rich man can eliminate his competition!" He laughed loudly and slapped my knee again.
This was going to be more interesting than I thought. We flew back and I landed easily. It was all easy to me. I suddenly had a idea.
"You should let me fly this one as advertising." He was already laughing.
"Of course! That is what we have decided and for you, keep the weapons!"
I smiled and patted my new spacecraft wondering how I could sell them faster.
***
The deep space painters arrived bright an early and we went down the row blasting color swatches on each door. The first was going to be hot pink...
"Reever! Good to see you! Look what I have for you!" He gestured to the row of small spacecraft.
"I've seen them and I am trying to figure a way to sell them."
"Problems? Come inside and I will show you all and it will be a easy sell to every rich fool you know!"
It was the height of two autos from the 20th century, but wider and longer. He pushed his watch and a lift slid down as the door slid up. We walked up the slight incline and it smelled like 'new car', a scent we bought to spray old spacecraft. It looked brand new on the inside which it did not on the outside.
There were two navigation/piloting seats in the front and two larger, more comfortable looking seats right past a small walkway. It was a tight fit for walking, but it could be done. There was a toilet in the back and a tiny galley near it. Every space was for storage, otherwise.
I sat in the captain's seat and looked at the controls. I knew where the weapons button should be, but it had been painted over. All that was visible were navigation controls.
The rep sealed us in and said, "Let's take her up!"
My time in the Sea Wars was about to pay off, for we had used these 'shuttles' many times. I headed to the Drylands and opened her up. She was in good shape. I pressed the covered blaster buttons and took out a few dry plants.
"You are going to actually disconnect these, right?" I asked.
He pressed his watch again. "Try it out."
Nothing. Good. I could just see some crazy road rage with blaster weapons fired by blue-haired old women going out to Haiku tea.
"Why did they really decide to sell these?" I asked.
"There are thousands of them and some have never been used. They will go to the males. The female's needs are so mundane, that they won't need them. This way the rich man can eliminate his competition!" He laughed loudly and slapped my knee again.
This was going to be more interesting than I thought. We flew back and I landed easily. It was all easy to me. I suddenly had a idea.
"You should let me fly this one as advertising." He was already laughing.
"Of course! That is what we have decided and for you, keep the weapons!"
I smiled and patted my new spacecraft wondering how I could sell them faster.
***
The deep space painters arrived bright an early and we went down the row blasting color swatches on each door. The first was going to be hot pink...
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Walking Through a Building - RT Shores
When A Nurse Runs A Hospital...
Hospital supervisors literally know where all the skeletons are hidden. Whether it be a real skeleton or who is having an affair; we know it all.
The first thing I do when they hand off the large ring of keys is match keys to locked doors and tag them with my own code. If a door won't unlock, unless it is administration, I make a note and find out what is in it and why can't I get to it.
I love the rooms, all the rooms; massive with supplies or tiny for dictation. I really love surprise rooms; doctor's private sleep rooms that I shouldn't have a key to and storage left behind from a time of sanding barbs off of reusable needles.
Of course, there are hazards when you have keys... say you need something from the operating room after hours, a special tray for a doctor maybe. You decide to enter through the nurse's lounge and then don your apparel so as not to contaminate the theaters. You turn the key, hear a commotion and then the door is slammed shut on you. You also happen to spy naked buttocks running out of the room.
It so happened I had come across a doctor and nurse affair... I never said a word, but had leverage on both, should I need it.
One problem with carrying that many keys is that people can always here you coming. I learned to hold them still when I wanted to sneak up on a nurses' station and make sure everyone was working. They still heard me coming. I found out it was my shoes and not the keys at all.
Stairwells are another great part of buildings. Elevators are boring and slow. I used to run the stairs to every call, unless I was laden with supplies or pharmaceuticals. It was great exercise and completely empty most of the time.
'Do Not Enter' signs didn't stop me anymore. I could enter anywhere, unless it was hazardous, of course. I was powerful, basically. With that power, of course, comes extreme responsibility: patients and staff... all of them.
***
I moved to another state and hospital as a supervisor and figured it would be a rough transition, but it wasn't. Hospitals of the same size have basically the same types of rooms and needs. I was comfortable after one shift.
I love walking quiet hospital hallways at night. You hear breathing, machinery, nurses' subdued conversation and gentle phone rings. That all changes in an emergency...
Then we have cacophony: alarms, loud, adrenalin filled voices, running feet and orders barked by sleepy doctors. Then it is quiet again and you have to bleed off your own adrenalin and get back into the normal flow of the building.
The most fun place in a hospital is the dietary department. You have keys to it in case there are late admissions, a doctor needs to eat something other than chips or sodas (I used it for my nurses as well) or you want to eat. There were always meals left, fully prepared, that you would heat in the microwave and take to patients or the others. It was a perc, for sure.
Hospitals are such alive buildings! They take in patients, they process them, we move inside them, they put forth patients and the cycle repeats. I have never been in a more interesting building than a hospital, many hospitals, and may not ever be in one, well maybe La Louvre is an exception.
Hospital supervisors literally know where all the skeletons are hidden. Whether it be a real skeleton or who is having an affair; we know it all.
The first thing I do when they hand off the large ring of keys is match keys to locked doors and tag them with my own code. If a door won't unlock, unless it is administration, I make a note and find out what is in it and why can't I get to it.
I love the rooms, all the rooms; massive with supplies or tiny for dictation. I really love surprise rooms; doctor's private sleep rooms that I shouldn't have a key to and storage left behind from a time of sanding barbs off of reusable needles.
Of course, there are hazards when you have keys... say you need something from the operating room after hours, a special tray for a doctor maybe. You decide to enter through the nurse's lounge and then don your apparel so as not to contaminate the theaters. You turn the key, hear a commotion and then the door is slammed shut on you. You also happen to spy naked buttocks running out of the room.
It so happened I had come across a doctor and nurse affair... I never said a word, but had leverage on both, should I need it.
One problem with carrying that many keys is that people can always here you coming. I learned to hold them still when I wanted to sneak up on a nurses' station and make sure everyone was working. They still heard me coming. I found out it was my shoes and not the keys at all.
Stairwells are another great part of buildings. Elevators are boring and slow. I used to run the stairs to every call, unless I was laden with supplies or pharmaceuticals. It was great exercise and completely empty most of the time.
'Do Not Enter' signs didn't stop me anymore. I could enter anywhere, unless it was hazardous, of course. I was powerful, basically. With that power, of course, comes extreme responsibility: patients and staff... all of them.
***
I moved to another state and hospital as a supervisor and figured it would be a rough transition, but it wasn't. Hospitals of the same size have basically the same types of rooms and needs. I was comfortable after one shift.
I love walking quiet hospital hallways at night. You hear breathing, machinery, nurses' subdued conversation and gentle phone rings. That all changes in an emergency...
Then we have cacophony: alarms, loud, adrenalin filled voices, running feet and orders barked by sleepy doctors. Then it is quiet again and you have to bleed off your own adrenalin and get back into the normal flow of the building.
The most fun place in a hospital is the dietary department. You have keys to it in case there are late admissions, a doctor needs to eat something other than chips or sodas (I used it for my nurses as well) or you want to eat. There were always meals left, fully prepared, that you would heat in the microwave and take to patients or the others. It was a perc, for sure.
Hospitals are such alive buildings! They take in patients, they process them, we move inside them, they put forth patients and the cycle repeats. I have never been in a more interesting building than a hospital, many hospitals, and may not ever be in one, well maybe La Louvre is an exception.
35 - Walking through a building - J.F. Hire
Janice was walking through the neighborhood mall. Her bag bounced lightly next to her, her eyes wandering from one storefront to another, looking for nothing in particular.
She made her way into the perfume department. Walking silently, perusing the merchandise, she was assaulted by numerous advertisements. Though there were no sales-people in this sort of establishment, the sales tactics were more flagrant than usual. These were transmitted to her via the trilateral satellite service and GPS tracking.
Though anyone who was anyone found this sort of advert tedious, forcing it to become white noise. No matter what you were watching through your OpPlant device when you entered the mall, it was overridden and interlaced by the store-front adverts in the vicinity. Holographic women and men and animals would talk to you from their GPS placement in their respective stores.
"The perfect fragrance for Her. The cheapest fragrance for His pocket: Practical Magic. Available for five credits..."
"Smell as pure as the new moon, and sense it transform into a warm fire's hearth: as YOUR libido wakes up, it'll be time for you two to lay it down..."
"Never again become overwhelmed by a scent, use MelloSmello for anything from bathrooms to over-musked co-worker--"
With a small adjustment to the remote on her hip-pack, she was left alone once more. The small bit of plastic-encased hardware 'cracked' the unit in her left eye and ceased the white noise.
In the mean time, she was able to take a gander at the nearby rack of pineapple-husk hats.
Robert was now en route on his moped to the nearing geo-cache. With baguette in hand, gnawing on the stale heel, he scanned the horizon for the strength of the signal. Thankfully he was also close to the broadcast tower for the channel he was surfing: Geo4. When he tuned in, he was almost immediately alerted of the newly placed treasure as he was ordering from the wannabe french bakery.
It wasn't long before he was on the trail toward greatness. He called Jonathan:
"No, you see. Geo4 doesn't just post anyone's shit. I'm not on a wild goose-chase either, I'm right the fuck there. It's here, I mean."
Jonathan spoke on the other end of the line, and Robert responded.
"Well okay, sure, there's a chance that someone else will go for it, but GC's are so passe these days, do you really think anyone would be as adamant as me? I'll get to the first. You'll envy me tonight. Remember to bring the girls. End Call"
He turned at the second light from the patisserie and spotted the hovering-holo-display overtop a nearby abandoned building. How vintage, he thought.
"This should be good. Camera on- focus manual- submit to Trak.photo- filetype .amp."
His eyes scanned the area for any other people. This time of day would be a bit congested on the nearby highway, but hell, that wasn't exactly the means of travel for the kinds of people who were into THIS kind of thing.
Her screen blinked an ETA of five minutes. This gave her hope, and before long, she was standing, and the stroller bubble disapperated into nothingness, and that nothingness relocated into her back pocket.
From her vantage point on the east side of the building, it looked abandoned. It looked as though the doors, walls, and windows were from an era long ago. Though this was a rather busy area, she took note that she had never taken notice of this building before.
"Maybe the artist cloaked it from channel viewing..."
"Yea, maybe."
The male voice took her by surprise. Even Robert was surprised that he had responded out loud. With a squint, he took in her visage. He appropriated it as a threat.
She, on the other hand, thought him quaint-- saw the moped a few yards away, some hulking loaf of bread sticking out of the green helmet. As she wasted time assessing the style of this stranger, he was already taking strides away from her and toward the entrance of the dilapidated building.
"Hey! Wait!." She ran after. "What are you doing around here...? Not exactly safe." She finally began to suspect that he was motivated toward what was rightfully her's.
"Doing business, and you're right, not safe. You should skedaddle." He brushed her off, his long legs beating her up the stairs-- which required that he take two at a time, considering that every other step was caved in.
"No, really. I've got something I need to find. Do you live here?" Her rather innocent supposition rubbed him the wrong way. He walked harder, hoping that her footing would fail at his heels, stairs crashing inward into oblivion. The race was on.
"Excuse me? Do you really think I would LIVE here? Honestly, child, it's a dump." He scoffed, making it to the second to last level of the squat building.
"Hey, no offense meant, I think this place is lovely. I wouldn't imagine it to be MY summer villa... But yours? Oh, I don't see why not..." She gained on him, the creaking and crumbling structure causing her Flight mode to send her closer to his side.
"Look," he turned to face her, now arriving at the roof-top door where they had both seen the tip-top of the hover-holo-display. "I'm not exactly in the mood the flirt, and... Well, you're not exactly MY type, but stick around in one of these hovels-- I'm sure Mister Right will pop up."
Certain of his intentions, she shoved past him and the door, taking a few running steps before starting to walk boldly again. Now, she closed the space between her and the nearby cache.
"Ohhh no you don't, Missy."
For an instant, they were both racing toward the display, their left arms outstretched, both hoping to claim digital buyer's rights first.
After that instant, they were both stopped in their tracks-- hands both lay on the small prism emitting the large, abstracted image of a giraffe. They marveled. Spots and speckles and long legs and nubby, fuzzy horns all stared down upon them.
"Wow." A far-off voice echoed.
"Yea... Fuckin' huge." Another bounced back.
It took a moment for the situation to dawn upon the both of them. As their vision adjusted to the new light, they realized that the only source of light was that giraffe. The city was darkness now, no moon either. For fear of disrupting the magic in the moment, neither moved. Soon, though, they realized that this was not on their own accord.
"I can't move," she whispered in the giraffe-lit night.
"Me neither..." a worried response came from his direction-- his face illuminated by the legs of the beastly display.
For a long while, neither of them removed their eyes from this light-source-- the only light to be found. As if moths paralyzed, drawn to this flame, they stared. They held idle conversation.
"I don't think I agree with that." She would reply.
"Well, you don't have to." He would snap.
Something like hours or years passed before they noticed that there was no magic left in the moment. After a time, they could only realize that this moment was all that they had left.
She made her way into the perfume department. Walking silently, perusing the merchandise, she was assaulted by numerous advertisements. Though there were no sales-people in this sort of establishment, the sales tactics were more flagrant than usual. These were transmitted to her via the trilateral satellite service and GPS tracking.
Though anyone who was anyone found this sort of advert tedious, forcing it to become white noise. No matter what you were watching through your OpPlant device when you entered the mall, it was overridden and interlaced by the store-front adverts in the vicinity. Holographic women and men and animals would talk to you from their GPS placement in their respective stores.
"The perfect fragrance for Her. The cheapest fragrance for His pocket: Practical Magic. Available for five credits..."
"Smell as pure as the new moon, and sense it transform into a warm fire's hearth: as YOUR libido wakes up, it'll be time for you two to lay it down..."
"Never again become overwhelmed by a scent, use MelloSmello for anything from bathrooms to over-musked co-worker--"
With a small adjustment to the remote on her hip-pack, she was left alone once more. The small bit of plastic-encased hardware 'cracked' the unit in her left eye and ceased the white noise.
In the mean time, she was able to take a gander at the nearby rack of pineapple-husk hats.
--------
It wasn't long before he was on the trail toward greatness. He called Jonathan:
"No, you see. Geo4 doesn't just post anyone's shit. I'm not on a wild goose-chase either, I'm right the fuck there. It's here, I mean."
Jonathan spoke on the other end of the line, and Robert responded.
"Well okay, sure, there's a chance that someone else will go for it, but GC's are so passe these days, do you really think anyone would be as adamant as me? I'll get to the first. You'll envy me tonight. Remember to bring the girls. End Call"
He turned at the second light from the patisserie and spotted the hovering-holo-display overtop a nearby abandoned building. How vintage, he thought.
"This should be good. Camera on- focus manual- submit to Trak.photo- filetype .amp."
His eyes scanned the area for any other people. This time of day would be a bit congested on the nearby highway, but hell, that wasn't exactly the means of travel for the kinds of people who were into THIS kind of thing.
--------
As she headed home, channel surfing with a few blinks, she checked the local GC news, caches popping up less and less.
"I don't get it.. Found, free, one of a kind. Why wouldn't it be more popular..." She talked to herself, fiddling with the kitschy hat on her head, checking herself in the reflective edges of her sidewalk stroller bubble. Her legs crossed as the bubble strolled along.
"Only an hour ago there has been a new addition to St. Jezebel's gallery off of FrankStreet. Still unclaimed, our trilats indicate several people intent on interception. Be the first to get to it and have it for yourself! The piece's topic: Giraffes."
If there were but one word that could freeze her in her stylish tracks, it was the word 'giraffe'. As if a unicorn, T-rex, or house-cat of old, this was a creature she had always allowed to roam her imagination. Some supposed that these were out of the artist Dali's imagination. She always speculated.
"Pod-stop, re-route to FrankStreet via... Trial Plaza. Take bike routes."
From her vantage point on the east side of the building, it looked abandoned. It looked as though the doors, walls, and windows were from an era long ago. Though this was a rather busy area, she took note that she had never taken notice of this building before.
"Maybe the artist cloaked it from channel viewing..."
"Yea, maybe."
The male voice took her by surprise. Even Robert was surprised that he had responded out loud. With a squint, he took in her visage. He appropriated it as a threat.
She, on the other hand, thought him quaint-- saw the moped a few yards away, some hulking loaf of bread sticking out of the green helmet. As she wasted time assessing the style of this stranger, he was already taking strides away from her and toward the entrance of the dilapidated building.
"Hey! Wait!." She ran after. "What are you doing around here...? Not exactly safe." She finally began to suspect that he was motivated toward what was rightfully her's.
"Doing business, and you're right, not safe. You should skedaddle." He brushed her off, his long legs beating her up the stairs-- which required that he take two at a time, considering that every other step was caved in.
"No, really. I've got something I need to find. Do you live here?" Her rather innocent supposition rubbed him the wrong way. He walked harder, hoping that her footing would fail at his heels, stairs crashing inward into oblivion. The race was on.
"Excuse me? Do you really think I would LIVE here? Honestly, child, it's a dump." He scoffed, making it to the second to last level of the squat building.
"Hey, no offense meant, I think this place is lovely. I wouldn't imagine it to be MY summer villa... But yours? Oh, I don't see why not..." She gained on him, the creaking and crumbling structure causing her Flight mode to send her closer to his side.
"Look," he turned to face her, now arriving at the roof-top door where they had both seen the tip-top of the hover-holo-display. "I'm not exactly in the mood the flirt, and... Well, you're not exactly MY type, but stick around in one of these hovels-- I'm sure Mister Right will pop up."
Certain of his intentions, she shoved past him and the door, taking a few running steps before starting to walk boldly again. Now, she closed the space between her and the nearby cache.
"Ohhh no you don't, Missy."
For an instant, they were both racing toward the display, their left arms outstretched, both hoping to claim digital buyer's rights first.
After that instant, they were both stopped in their tracks-- hands both lay on the small prism emitting the large, abstracted image of a giraffe. They marveled. Spots and speckles and long legs and nubby, fuzzy horns all stared down upon them.
"Wow." A far-off voice echoed.
"Yea... Fuckin' huge." Another bounced back.
It took a moment for the situation to dawn upon the both of them. As their vision adjusted to the new light, they realized that the only source of light was that giraffe. The city was darkness now, no moon either. For fear of disrupting the magic in the moment, neither moved. Soon, though, they realized that this was not on their own accord.
"I can't move," she whispered in the giraffe-lit night.
"Me neither..." a worried response came from his direction-- his face illuminated by the legs of the beastly display.
For a long while, neither of them removed their eyes from this light-source-- the only light to be found. As if moths paralyzed, drawn to this flame, they stared. They held idle conversation.
"I don't think I agree with that." She would reply.
"Well, you don't have to." He would snap.
Something like hours or years passed before they noticed that there was no magic left in the moment. After a time, they could only realize that this moment was all that they had left.
Words With Strangers - RT Shores
'The Unusual Events at the Meeting of Communication Specialists'
Good - "Would you like to go ahead of me?"
Bad - "Move, please." (The please doesn't help.)
Unfortunate - "When's the baby due?"
(Not pregnant... )
"How many of you signed up for this mini-course for just these openers?"
He scanned the room and almost every hand went up. He nodded.
"We are all uncomfortable with strangers at one point or another. Do we make eye contact? Smile? Say something?"
He watched as the audience nodded and smiled at each other. Did they not realize that they were using openers right now? The difference was that they were there for a common reason.
"Why is there pressure to speak to a stranger? Is this self imposed or does society encourage us to communicate or even perform acts of random kindness?"
A small hand went up in the audience.
"Yes? I can't see you, but you can move to the middle aisle if you like."
A small child appeared. "Parents make us scared." Then the child disappeared.
"That is true sometimes. Parents are scared of what can happen to their children in the company of strangers." The little hand went up again.
"Come and talk to us, little one."
The child appeared again and it was a very young boy.
"You can come up here and use the microphone if you like." He handed a hand mic to the child. The child hopped up onto the stage without effort and began to speak. The voice was that of a child, the words were not...
"You live from fear. You should live from love. You are made from My image; My likeness. There is love in everyone and it is up to you to discover that love. You are My children." He paused as everyone, except security, was frozen in place with open-mouthed expressions.
Security was also frozen place now, but not of their own will.
"You see? Even here, you would be afraid of a small child talking to you. I find this sad and worry for you. How can I help you if you can love more than a tightly woven group around you?" He paused again and people reported later that He spoke to each of them in their heads.
"Before I go... I understand that there is reason for some people to be avoided in this new world. It does not mean all people. Open you world to others. Help your neighbor."
He was gone. The microphone rocked slightly on the stage and security fell forward as they were released from their spell.
People looked at each other and stared. Had they really just talked with God?
***
A decade later, not one person at the meeting has changed their mind or their opinion about what happened. God had come to them as a small child and asked them to love more people. All also reported that almost 100% of the time that they were the one who initiated first contact with a stranger.
"Why is there pressure to speak to a stranger? Is this self imposed or does society encourage us to communicate or even perform acts of random kindness?"
A small hand went up in the audience.
"Yes? I can't see you, but you can move to the middle aisle if you like."
A small child appeared. "Parents make us scared." Then the child disappeared.
"That is true sometimes. Parents are scared of what can happen to their children in the company of strangers." The little hand went up again.
"Come and talk to us, little one."
The child appeared again and it was a very young boy.
"You can come up here and use the microphone if you like." He handed a hand mic to the child. The child hopped up onto the stage without effort and began to speak. The voice was that of a child, the words were not...
"You live from fear. You should live from love. You are made from My image; My likeness. There is love in everyone and it is up to you to discover that love. You are My children." He paused as everyone, except security, was frozen in place with open-mouthed expressions.
Security was also frozen place now, but not of their own will.
"You see? Even here, you would be afraid of a small child talking to you. I find this sad and worry for you. How can I help you if you can love more than a tightly woven group around you?" He paused again and people reported later that He spoke to each of them in their heads.
"Before I go... I understand that there is reason for some people to be avoided in this new world. It does not mean all people. Open you world to others. Help your neighbor."
He was gone. The microphone rocked slightly on the stage and security fell forward as they were released from their spell.
People looked at each other and stared. Had they really just talked with God?
***
A decade later, not one person at the meeting has changed their mind or their opinion about what happened. God had come to them as a small child and asked them to love more people. All also reported that almost 100% of the time that they were the one who initiated first contact with a stranger.
34 - Words with strangers - J.F. Hire
Tomorrow Justin will learn that he is not who he was taught to be.
On the walk to the bar in the city, he would notice just how bright they lights are: "Pretty." For years, he had been too young to join in on these festivities, but he was older now. He was old enough to drink with his elders, and learn their stories. He was old enough to take a few punches and lose a few fights. He was old enough to know better.
On the way to the bar, he noticed many women. As if he had not noticed them before this day, he basked in their variety and essence, staring far too long. Some stared back, while others avoided the hungry gaze of the puppy he was. They only hoped that he was fixed. After a few comical trips and stumbles on the road, the bar was within eye-sight. The tower was there, perhaps a princess waiting for saving. Perhaps just a few over-priced beers.
On the way into the bar, he was not greeted with "NORM" or the bell of the door opening and shutting. He was not given the eye-contact of anyone other than the barkeep (who judged his age easily from such a distance, taking note that the boy held his wallet tightly, ready to expose his I.D. The bartender would intentionally never ask for this, knowing the pride in tow).
On the walk to the bar-top, waiting for someone to stop him, question his being there, or at least bump into him recklessly like the drunken brutes he expected, he counted the patrons. Only fifteen. Upon observing the clock, he began to doubt the popularity of this bar. It was nearly eleven at night, and apparently only 'regulars' were here. None of them were interesting, none at all. Even four beers didn't give him much to gander-- other than the bartender who insisted that he tip once in a while. He dropped a fiver.
On the bar stool, leaning against the bar top, and taking a look at the bar regulars he noticed why nobody was here. There seemed to be some sort of construction going on in the back of the place. A large white sheeting was covering the area beyond. Mother always said that curiosity killed the cat, but dad always hated cats anyway. The sheet was up against the men's room door, so it was easy for Justin to slip into the bathroom for a few moments, and back out and past the sheet.
On observation, he knew that he shouldn't be here. The floors had no wood. The stools had no seats. And the roof had no... Well there was no roof, he took note. Something about the sheet behind him kept this half of the bar obscenely quiet. Some kind of black bird hung out on the bare rafters, staring down at him, shitting on the exposed earth beneath them.
On the beams of the floorboard, he walked. He paced, playing with balance and testing his sobriety. As he noticed, he was too keen at the moment. He intended another drink, soon.
On the walk through the sheet, he was met with a solid white wall instead. This is when he fell between two parallel floor-boards and into the wet earth beyond, some piping meeting his backside.
On the ground, one curious thing, he thought, was that he did not notice this extension from the outside. He was almost certain that it was a small boutique adjacent to the bar. Perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps he was just oogling too many women. Perhaps he should have thought about this before he had run face-first into the wall and into the mud.
On the floorboards were multiple bugs and ants, judging him as they passed on their highway drive home. He stood up again, and would crawl toward the sheet. His hesitant fingers pressed into the fabric, which was fabric once again! He pushed it up, and began to crawl into the better half of the bar, muddy and panicked and crawling. People took notice.
On the floor, he pushed himself upright and gasped out, excitedly pointing toward the sheet-wall.
"Th-that sheet was a wall!" He exclaimed.
On that note, the barkeep nodded, and then shook his head, glad that this boy hadn't started a tab. He much preferred he leave sooner rather than later. But that wouldn't be the case. An also-excited fellow came by, standing near Justin, leaning in. This is when the mocking began.
"Oh is it?" the man felt the sheet, smirking. "Feels like a curtain to me, kid."
"But no, it changed. And I fell because of it." Justin offered, looking for pity from this stranger.
"Well I don't know about that... Tell us more about what happened." The man brought him over to the table where he and his friends were.
On the seat that Justin sat is the seat where he realized that his father would be ashamed. Justin should have been discreet, calm, calculated in such a setting. Perhaps he should have offered a punch in the jaw from the man obviously patronizing him. Instead, he retold the story over and over again-- each time adding more intricate details.
"Cmon, Vern, listen to this. Tell it again, kid."
"On the floor was bloody mud, and worms crawling all around. And on the ceiling was a dozen crows, crawing at me to leave their nest of carrion and worms. Then they pecked me back into the bar..."
On that night he learned that he could never be who he was taught to be, for he had secured himself in the seat of Town Fool.
The bar couldn't afford any additions. Justin had crawled out of the window, and right back in-- past a white curtain.
On the walk to the bar in the city, he would notice just how bright they lights are: "Pretty." For years, he had been too young to join in on these festivities, but he was older now. He was old enough to drink with his elders, and learn their stories. He was old enough to take a few punches and lose a few fights. He was old enough to know better.
On the way to the bar, he noticed many women. As if he had not noticed them before this day, he basked in their variety and essence, staring far too long. Some stared back, while others avoided the hungry gaze of the puppy he was. They only hoped that he was fixed. After a few comical trips and stumbles on the road, the bar was within eye-sight. The tower was there, perhaps a princess waiting for saving. Perhaps just a few over-priced beers.
On the way into the bar, he was not greeted with "NORM" or the bell of the door opening and shutting. He was not given the eye-contact of anyone other than the barkeep (who judged his age easily from such a distance, taking note that the boy held his wallet tightly, ready to expose his I.D. The bartender would intentionally never ask for this, knowing the pride in tow).
On the walk to the bar-top, waiting for someone to stop him, question his being there, or at least bump into him recklessly like the drunken brutes he expected, he counted the patrons. Only fifteen. Upon observing the clock, he began to doubt the popularity of this bar. It was nearly eleven at night, and apparently only 'regulars' were here. None of them were interesting, none at all. Even four beers didn't give him much to gander-- other than the bartender who insisted that he tip once in a while. He dropped a fiver.
On the bar stool, leaning against the bar top, and taking a look at the bar regulars he noticed why nobody was here. There seemed to be some sort of construction going on in the back of the place. A large white sheeting was covering the area beyond. Mother always said that curiosity killed the cat, but dad always hated cats anyway. The sheet was up against the men's room door, so it was easy for Justin to slip into the bathroom for a few moments, and back out and past the sheet.
On observation, he knew that he shouldn't be here. The floors had no wood. The stools had no seats. And the roof had no... Well there was no roof, he took note. Something about the sheet behind him kept this half of the bar obscenely quiet. Some kind of black bird hung out on the bare rafters, staring down at him, shitting on the exposed earth beneath them.
On the beams of the floorboard, he walked. He paced, playing with balance and testing his sobriety. As he noticed, he was too keen at the moment. He intended another drink, soon.
On the walk through the sheet, he was met with a solid white wall instead. This is when he fell between two parallel floor-boards and into the wet earth beyond, some piping meeting his backside.
On the ground, one curious thing, he thought, was that he did not notice this extension from the outside. He was almost certain that it was a small boutique adjacent to the bar. Perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps he was just oogling too many women. Perhaps he should have thought about this before he had run face-first into the wall and into the mud.
On the floorboards were multiple bugs and ants, judging him as they passed on their highway drive home. He stood up again, and would crawl toward the sheet. His hesitant fingers pressed into the fabric, which was fabric once again! He pushed it up, and began to crawl into the better half of the bar, muddy and panicked and crawling. People took notice.
On the floor, he pushed himself upright and gasped out, excitedly pointing toward the sheet-wall.
"Th-that sheet was a wall!" He exclaimed.
On that note, the barkeep nodded, and then shook his head, glad that this boy hadn't started a tab. He much preferred he leave sooner rather than later. But that wouldn't be the case. An also-excited fellow came by, standing near Justin, leaning in. This is when the mocking began.
"Oh is it?" the man felt the sheet, smirking. "Feels like a curtain to me, kid."
"But no, it changed. And I fell because of it." Justin offered, looking for pity from this stranger.
"Well I don't know about that... Tell us more about what happened." The man brought him over to the table where he and his friends were.
On the seat that Justin sat is the seat where he realized that his father would be ashamed. Justin should have been discreet, calm, calculated in such a setting. Perhaps he should have offered a punch in the jaw from the man obviously patronizing him. Instead, he retold the story over and over again-- each time adding more intricate details.
"Cmon, Vern, listen to this. Tell it again, kid."
"On the floor was bloody mud, and worms crawling all around. And on the ceiling was a dozen crows, crawing at me to leave their nest of carrion and worms. Then they pecked me back into the bar..."
On that night he learned that he could never be who he was taught to be, for he had secured himself in the seat of Town Fool.
The bar couldn't afford any additions. Justin had crawled out of the window, and right back in-- past a white curtain.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Describe A Sensation - RT Shores
Which Chip Today?
The signs flashed brighter and faster as the cost increased. 'Pain' was slow and dull, for few wanted to buy it. The highest was 'childhood joy', even surpassing sex.
E61927 counted his Nill and groaned. He could afford pain and all the negatives, but only one pleasure; Full Stomach.
He was scared of that one though. No one, well the Nill hoarders sure, but no one had a full stomach.
He kept walking down the rows and saw a line at 'Nature, 20th Century'. Hm, what was this? A pleasure and he could afford it, but what was it?
He threw caution to the wind and bought a share. It was interactive, so he had to do it in the showroom. He followed the slow moving line and then began to here gasps, squeals and laughter. This should be good!
It said to insert your hand... he hesitated, but one before him people nodded and smiled. He inserted his hand. It felt cool and soft, but bouncy and smelled like something he did not know. It was grass grown in soil. Lovely!
The next was just soft, but smelled wonderful. His fingers smelled like he could eat them. Marshmallows! What part of nature were these?
The next was cool or cold and all were hard and smooth. 'Pebbles' he read. He wondered what was done with them in the past.
The line kept moving and it was calmer after the initial exposure. It was almost a waste of Nil now. He didn't have to wait long for a commotion to begin though.
Up ahead, at what he thought was the last display, were wide-eyed and very excited people. He heard words like: alive, moved, warm!
People watched as he gently inserted his hand and then held it still. A soft movement was felt first and then a tickle on his hand. Something wet and scratchy was on his finger. He didn't want to move. It was a creature and it was alive. He looked at the sign, now revealed: mouse. A mouse.
The displays had ended and the Nil was spent, but it was well worth it. Life before was more exciting, but he wondered what they had now that would be exciting to those in the past and was determined to start his own collection.
He felt good: warm, happy, excited, intrigued, questioning and he was so glad he hadn't wasted Nil on 'full stomach'!
It said to insert your hand... he hesitated, but one before him people nodded and smiled. He inserted his hand. It felt cool and soft, but bouncy and smelled like something he did not know. It was grass grown in soil. Lovely!
The next was just soft, but smelled wonderful. His fingers smelled like he could eat them. Marshmallows! What part of nature were these?
The next was cool or cold and all were hard and smooth. 'Pebbles' he read. He wondered what was done with them in the past.
The line kept moving and it was calmer after the initial exposure. It was almost a waste of Nil now. He didn't have to wait long for a commotion to begin though.
Up ahead, at what he thought was the last display, were wide-eyed and very excited people. He heard words like: alive, moved, warm!
People watched as he gently inserted his hand and then held it still. A soft movement was felt first and then a tickle on his hand. Something wet and scratchy was on his finger. He didn't want to move. It was a creature and it was alive. He looked at the sign, now revealed: mouse. A mouse.
The displays had ended and the Nil was spent, but it was well worth it. Life before was more exciting, but he wondered what they had now that would be exciting to those in the past and was determined to start his own collection.
He felt good: warm, happy, excited, intrigued, questioning and he was so glad he hadn't wasted Nil on 'full stomach'!
33 - Describe a sensation - J.F. Hire
When he is practicing Tai Chi in the woods, I can see what he experiences.
From where I stand, I notice that his nostrils flair upon reacting to the nearby stench of a rotting bird. Like the carcass of tradition, his bright green sneakers grip the loamy soil beneath him. His ears are clogged with headphones. His eyes are shut tightly, as if straining to cut off connection with the world, alive around him. He is trying to reconnect with himself-- excluding that he is connected with all of the self apart from him.
I can see that he is becoming aware of a nearby bird. Through some sort of vibrational dexterity, there is notice of a brown thrasher rustling around in the bush nearby. One of his eyes open, reluctant, to see what may be disturbing him.
I visualize his expression from here, attuning to his attitude and his energy. He is annoyed. I see more than just his wavering attention on the task at hand. My sight reveals just how interested he is in finding himself, seeing himself, and feeling himself: no interest whatsoever. He has taken on this task as a fling with nature and the universe. His shirtless facade is shaved, tattooed, and housing a lazy diaphragm.
My sight reveals more: the stress of his brow, hidden from the sun within the canopy of the tree-tops. The tension in his back as sweat beads in only a few places. The strains of the world afar reaching him here, grasping him by the bollocks and controlling him like the marionette that he has become.
A vision of stone erupts from my mind. A man standing just as he does-- rigid in the dying of the sun, and rigid in the dying of man. Too stubborn to remove themselves from self, and too flagrant in their greed to notice.
My sight is steady, the metal hoop pin-pointing this statue centering him. My hands are sweaty, feet and legs gripping the tree branch which I lay on. The bullet makes contact as he begins to change the station of music on his phone.
Like the stone I see, he collapses, and lays on the ground motionless.
Someone will find him soon. They will find the twelve others that I have found first.
And when they do-- the split second that they pity this life will be one of their only encounters with ego-less existence.
"Namaste."
From where I stand, I notice that his nostrils flair upon reacting to the nearby stench of a rotting bird. Like the carcass of tradition, his bright green sneakers grip the loamy soil beneath him. His ears are clogged with headphones. His eyes are shut tightly, as if straining to cut off connection with the world, alive around him. He is trying to reconnect with himself-- excluding that he is connected with all of the self apart from him.
I can see that he is becoming aware of a nearby bird. Through some sort of vibrational dexterity, there is notice of a brown thrasher rustling around in the bush nearby. One of his eyes open, reluctant, to see what may be disturbing him.
I visualize his expression from here, attuning to his attitude and his energy. He is annoyed. I see more than just his wavering attention on the task at hand. My sight reveals just how interested he is in finding himself, seeing himself, and feeling himself: no interest whatsoever. He has taken on this task as a fling with nature and the universe. His shirtless facade is shaved, tattooed, and housing a lazy diaphragm.
My sight reveals more: the stress of his brow, hidden from the sun within the canopy of the tree-tops. The tension in his back as sweat beads in only a few places. The strains of the world afar reaching him here, grasping him by the bollocks and controlling him like the marionette that he has become.
A vision of stone erupts from my mind. A man standing just as he does-- rigid in the dying of the sun, and rigid in the dying of man. Too stubborn to remove themselves from self, and too flagrant in their greed to notice.
My sight is steady, the metal hoop pin-pointing this statue centering him. My hands are sweaty, feet and legs gripping the tree branch which I lay on. The bullet makes contact as he begins to change the station of music on his phone.
Like the stone I see, he collapses, and lays on the ground motionless.
Someone will find him soon. They will find the twelve others that I have found first.
And when they do-- the split second that they pity this life will be one of their only encounters with ego-less existence.
"Namaste."
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Pretentiousness - RT Shores
Hyacinth, Niles and Frasier
I like to think of Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced bouquet) coming to NYC and visiting Niles and Frasier under the guise of being sent as an emissary of the Queen...
They would meet at Frasier's stunning Seattle apartment with Niles bowing to Hyacinth, as she expected.
Hyacinth would come in waving like the Queen herself and then touching every surface with a white glove and 'tsk tsking' all the while. Daphne would be scolded by Frasier for the lack of cleanliness.
Marty would still be in his worn and torn recliner chair, daring anyone to say a word, while Eddie would woof and dance around Hyacinth's feet.
Richard, Hyacinth's long-suffering husband, would sit with Marty and they would roll their eyes and shake their heads while they enjoyed beer and TV.
Hyacinth would hold court with anyone available, while Niles and Frasier would think they had hit the jackpot, not knowing she was a mere housewife in England.
Daphne knew the truth and just decided to let it play out, hoping the brothers weren't too embarrassed when they discovered their error.
The butler, Frasier had hired, made eye contact with Daphne and she shook her head. He wanted to out the housewife and make a mess of things.
"Tea, Mum?" he asked Hyacinth. "Will you pour?"
"No! Certainly not! You will serve us all!" And with a wave of her hand, she dismissed the question.
She picked at invisible offenses on the tray and looked about the room with her nose in the air and a dismissive look on her face.
"So this is elegance in the United States? Looks a bit modern to me!" She looked around more. "And where is your library?" Richard tried to shush her, but she was having too much fun.
"Right this way, Mrs. Buh... I mean Mrs. Bouquet!" Niles led her to the library as Frasier talked with Richard.
"Is she happy with us? What do you think of her report to the Queen?"
"Report to the Queen? What are you talking about? We don't know the Queen!"
"But, but... the letter said 'as emissary to the Queen'!"
Richard laughed. "Queen of the Market Square! Hyacinth won a contest to be Queen's emissary, but the Queen is owner of the Farmer's Market!" He laughed some more.
Niles had returned and both he and Frasier were growing concerned. "Do you mean to tell me that she is not here from the Queen of England?"
"She is not." Said Richard. "I told her she had to explain!"
The butler chuckled as did Daphne.
"You knew?" Demanded Frasier.
They nodded.
"I am sorry!" Said Richard. I warned her that Americans might not find this humorous."
"We certainly do not!" Stated Niles as he rose and went to the library for Hyacinth.
They returned and it was obvious that he had given nothing away.
She waited for the men to stand and then accepted a seat. "Well, about supper... "
Frasier interrupted. "I am afraid this charade is over, Mrs. Bucket!"
"That is Bouquet!" Her demeanor was unchanged. "Please explain your statement, Dr. Crane."
"We now know you are not here on the behalf of the Queen of England, but Queen of the Market!"
"Why yes! Who ever said it was Her Majesty? My goodness!" She smiled in her icky sweet way. "Your advertisement said, 'Free Accommodations for Members of the Queen's Court while in Washington State'. You also did not say which queen!"
Frasier and Niles looked at each other. It was true, they hadn't specified which queen.
Everyone, including Eddie, looked at Hyacinth and watched as she continued to hold court for her newly aware court. She had won, but she always won for she was, after all, Hyacinth Bucket, Lady of the House!
They would meet at Frasier's stunning Seattle apartment with Niles bowing to Hyacinth, as she expected.
Hyacinth would come in waving like the Queen herself and then touching every surface with a white glove and 'tsk tsking' all the while. Daphne would be scolded by Frasier for the lack of cleanliness.
Marty would still be in his worn and torn recliner chair, daring anyone to say a word, while Eddie would woof and dance around Hyacinth's feet.
Richard, Hyacinth's long-suffering husband, would sit with Marty and they would roll their eyes and shake their heads while they enjoyed beer and TV.
Hyacinth would hold court with anyone available, while Niles and Frasier would think they had hit the jackpot, not knowing she was a mere housewife in England.
Daphne knew the truth and just decided to let it play out, hoping the brothers weren't too embarrassed when they discovered their error.
The butler, Frasier had hired, made eye contact with Daphne and she shook her head. He wanted to out the housewife and make a mess of things.
"Tea, Mum?" he asked Hyacinth. "Will you pour?"
"No! Certainly not! You will serve us all!" And with a wave of her hand, she dismissed the question.
She picked at invisible offenses on the tray and looked about the room with her nose in the air and a dismissive look on her face.
"So this is elegance in the United States? Looks a bit modern to me!" She looked around more. "And where is your library?" Richard tried to shush her, but she was having too much fun.
"Right this way, Mrs. Buh... I mean Mrs. Bouquet!" Niles led her to the library as Frasier talked with Richard.
"Is she happy with us? What do you think of her report to the Queen?"
"Report to the Queen? What are you talking about? We don't know the Queen!"
"But, but... the letter said 'as emissary to the Queen'!"
Richard laughed. "Queen of the Market Square! Hyacinth won a contest to be Queen's emissary, but the Queen is owner of the Farmer's Market!" He laughed some more.
Niles had returned and both he and Frasier were growing concerned. "Do you mean to tell me that she is not here from the Queen of England?"
"She is not." Said Richard. "I told her she had to explain!"
The butler chuckled as did Daphne.
"You knew?" Demanded Frasier.
They nodded.
"I am sorry!" Said Richard. I warned her that Americans might not find this humorous."
"We certainly do not!" Stated Niles as he rose and went to the library for Hyacinth.
They returned and it was obvious that he had given nothing away.
She waited for the men to stand and then accepted a seat. "Well, about supper... "
Frasier interrupted. "I am afraid this charade is over, Mrs. Bucket!"
"That is Bouquet!" Her demeanor was unchanged. "Please explain your statement, Dr. Crane."
"We now know you are not here on the behalf of the Queen of England, but Queen of the Market!"
"Why yes! Who ever said it was Her Majesty? My goodness!" She smiled in her icky sweet way. "Your advertisement said, 'Free Accommodations for Members of the Queen's Court while in Washington State'. You also did not say which queen!"
Frasier and Niles looked at each other. It was true, they hadn't specified which queen.
Everyone, including Eddie, looked at Hyacinth and watched as she continued to hold court for her newly aware court. She had won, but she always won for she was, after all, Hyacinth Bucket, Lady of the House!
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