After work last night, I decided to stop by the opening of the subway station for a quick smoke.
This is simply a small adjunct for Friday evenings, a shift away from the electronic dragon breath my soul has recently preferred.
I switched because I got bored of e-cigs. Sure, I'd found (among all the e-cig solutions) something that worked. And I've been using it for almost six months now, and I've only bought 10 whole packets of real cigarettes since then. (That doesn't sound great, but it actually is, for a
But I digress.
So I was standing there, smoking real cigarettes, when this girl who totally looked like the Khaleesi came and began checking her cellphone.
Surely not, I thought to myself. But I kept looking, and surely, yes. The same eyebrows. The same distance from hair to eyes. The same demeanor. It was like, she was the Khaleesi of the 21st Century (this is based purely on looks, not personality or anything deeper), probably talking to one of her 'advisors', on that phone of hers.
We stood for a good while there, me wondering if it would be appropriate to walk over and tell her how much I felt that she looked kinda like the actress from the Game of Thrones (it did not help that I do not remember the name of said actress, only who she acts as). So I imagined myself walking over and telling her that.
She would say "What fuck you, you compare me to a fucking actress on TV?"
I would say "Well, I did say 'kinda'. Doesn't mean the actress is *better* than you. You just 'kinda' remind me of her. Your eyebrows, and their juxtaposition to eyes, for example."
The girl runs away into the subway. I wait, wisely, a few good ten minutes and two cigarettes later, and follow her path, but only to go to my own home.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Ability For Dragons to Kick Ass
"Look, Irfan, you're not taking the Game of Thrones seriously enough."
"Why, what's happening? Is anyone dying or anything?"
"Drogon, you bastard!", she said, "You make me weep."
Drogon pulled an Immelman maneuver (something genetically coded into dragons) and then ate his own left wing (something not genetically coded into dragons).
He landed and freed his siblings, then turned to face the Mother.
"I heard that you were roasting some sweet meats lately."
Drogon raised an eyebrow, Kramer-style, at her. "You know it, young lady," he said.
She shouted at him a long, very painful shout. And she walked over, and tried to put one of the clasps upon him. "Why did you have to kill the baby girl?" asked the Khaleesi. "A human."
Already Drogon could sense how painfully pained she felt. He considered his next words very carefully, and then proceeded with them.
"I've been on a long flight," he said. "And I am a little older than the baby dragon you once knew me as." His voice was like fountains of lava.
Daenyrs looked cockily back at him. "Yet you are returned, to me, your mother."
Flames dangled from the wyrm's nostrils and he suddenly picked her up and brought her very close to his face. "You wot?" he rumbled.
"You went and ate a baby, a baby girl!" she yelled. "Last week it was a goat, and I thought, sure, ok. But now you're eating humans!"
He let out a puff, put her gently back on the floor, as polite dragons do, and then raised another eyebrow at her. "Are you calling me a cannibal?"
It made her weep even more. That this...creature considered himself part of the human society, and would be this surprised with her.
She began to shake her head. "You didn't kill shit, did you?" she smiled.
Dogon's eyebrow rose yet again, and from the eyebrow, his voice emanated: "Someone burned that poor little girl, but it was not me," he promised. "I've heard that there are places in the world that when they feel very pressured, they will go ahead and burn their baby girls."
"Are you still my baby?" asked Daenyrs, making Dogon roll his massive eyes.
"Yes, yes," he said.
Stepmother, family, etcetera etcetera sarah <--wait who is sarah? que sera sera?
Even the gray November morning sky spelled uneasy, with dull clouds churning around the tops of the tall condominiums that mostly made up Lisa's neighborhood. As she bent over to secure Theo in his stroller, fumbling somewhat with the straps against his wriggling and gurgling little body, a flock of children danced and swung by, exuding their typical noisy merriment on their way to the school around the corner of her street. Theo, excited by the children, kept trying to reach out and call at them, as though a desperate kidnappee, making it that much harder to secure him. Finally the clasps snapped into place snuggly. She would have loudly cursed those children (not that she was a horrid witch of a person, but out of being flat out tired), but, in fact, 'Good,' she thought, of the children. At least here was a fortunate sign. It meant she should make it for the next bus just in time.
"But why granny dies?" asked the toddler as she snapped the last buckle in place. He was very excited, partly because the whole idea of "granny" was entirely new to him, and probably partly because they were going out on a trip, and he absolutely loved the outside.
"Step-granny, sweetie" she said, doing some final tuck-ins, "she was your step-granny, remember, not your granny."
His brown eyes had lit up when she'd first told him of her stepmother's passing. She'd rather have kept it all to herself, but he'd overheard her on the speaker-phone when the solicitor called last Tuesday to let her know. Immediately the questions had come pouring out of him, like little challenges, and admittedly, the news had unsettled her enough that she had not, perhaps, explained everything to him as carefully as she would have liked to. He had just started learning about the idea of death, and also, somehow about grandmothers, and where he came from--though she had no idea where these questions came from. Television, probably. She'd never talked to him about grandmothers at any rate. Never had to, so far. And of course, she didn't really expect the concept of a 'step-granny' to register with his baby mind. It was simply that it made her feel better to reiterate the fact. She had asked him several nights since then, lying on her bed before his bed time, and lifting him up and down, "Do you know who your real granny really was?", but he would just let out a funny gleeful coo and try to poke back at her nose again.
Theo now a happy camper in his seat, she opened the small, creaking gate that led away from her small apartment building, checked in her coat pocket for the postal service package notification slip, and finding it there, stepped out. The solicitor, who'd introduced himself as a Mr. A. E. Blakely over the phone, had told her to expect the delivery, which would contain documents pertaining to her inheritance. He also very specifically told her that she would have to pick them up in person--for some reason this was emphasized several times--"in accordance to the late widow Wetherell's last recorded wishes". This was extremely inconvenient as it meant she had to take the morning off from work, but completely in line with Olivia's legacy of doing things. Self-serving and without an ounce of consideration for the difficulties of others, and Blakely insisted upon it. The thought had occurred to Lisa to completely ignore this grand 'summons', and get on with life as usual, but in the end the curiosity of it won her over. Now, Lisa caught herself shivering slightly, and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk to bring her collar up and pull her coat closer around her. Then she realized that it wasn't really that cold outside this morning. Rather, it was an unpleasant nervousness that started freezing in her belly and rode across her body, to her neck. She noticed her hands tremble slightly as she placed them back upon the stroller's handle. What on Earth could the imposing Mrs. Olivia Wetherell, widow of the great Jonathan Wetherell, Esquire have left her estranged stepdaughter as an inheritance? She rolled her eyes at the thought of the intrigue, and pressed on to the bus stop.
Of course, some extra money coming in would be nice. Things weren't particularly bad, especially as a single mother fresh out of medical college. The internship at the forensics lab could be stressful at times (certainly, having to figure out what to do with the baby when called in during the middle of the night could prove a challenge), but it provided enough to keep the two of them pretty comfortable. But you never know, and a little more money would add just that much more padding to their lives. As she pushed the stroller down the street, she could hear the mumbles of Theo talking to himself, accented by the occasional cheerful "Hi!" as they went by others. It started to drizzle lightly, and Lisa was torn from her thoughts in a hurry to get them to the bus stop shelter, which was only a couple of streets away.
They made it before the drizzle turned any heavier. Lisa checked to see if Theo had kept dry, and finding that he had, praised him for it. "That's a good baby," she said, tickling his belly, and he smiled back happily, beaming and nodding that, yes, he was indeed. Catching her breath and allowing a little smile herself, she got up and looked down the street for the dim lights, and just then, the bus had already pulled by. Lisa found herself letting out a sigh of relief, and realized how tense she had been all morning. But here it was, the bus. Despite the trouble of having to take the time off of work, despite the rain, and despite her uneasiness with the task at hand this morning, things were finally afoot. Thank heavens for the bus!
As the would-be passengers formed their line and slowly began boarding, Lisa pulled Theo up, and with him snug under one arm, folded her stroller. She tried to place herself last, since she had the stroller and baby with her. The line took a good couple of minutes to get moving along. Probably due to the rain, there were more people than usual getting on this time, but she didn't mind at all. In fact it was somewhat soothing--she had always found the process of being in line to get somewhere or do something to be very peaceful and relaxing. Whether at airports, grocery stores, or even carnival rides, there was something sure and certain about it. Now, as she moved along with the line, a soft and rather warm (for November) gust of wind blew up from behind her, up against her neck, as though gently goading her forward.
Finally, it was her turn. As the older lady in front of her swiped her Metro Pass, Lisa brought herself to the bus door, the stroller in front of her leaning back against her thigh, and picked around for her Metro Pass from her bag. That in hand, she was just about to climb, when something black and wet whooshed in front of her, leapt over the front of the stroller's slanted front, and right into the bus. Lisa froze in place as drops of cold water that had splashed her on the face began to register their chill, all the calmness she had attained moments ago flushing straight out of her body. And somewhere in that state of shock, her baby started crying.
It seemed like minutes before she came back to the world at large, but in truth it was probably just a few moments. Now, at the doorway of the bus, what sounded like an argument was unfolding. As further chunks of reality settled lazily in, she began to make out that the bus driver was refusing to grant entry to the creature that had slammed past her just moments ago.
She could barely make any words out, but the bus driver was shaking his head as though saying "No, no, no," and creature--or tall man, she could see, now--was attempting to defuse the situation and gain entry to the bus. The bus driver, not giving in, pointed with an adamant straight hand, "Get the hell out of my bus." The tall man, adorned in a wet black fedora and below that, a dripping, full-length black raincoat (no doubt the source of the drops of water that had splashed her) appeared to seem surprised. "Why? What have I done?" The bus driver then pointed down at Lisa, who for a moment looked away a little uncomfortably, but then, realizing how angry she really was, stared back at them.
The tall man turned, somewhat quizzically, to look back at her. He put his hand up to his dark sunglasses, as though checking to make certain she was really there, and then continued to look at her for a few seconds. Lisa returned the gaze, unflinching, and instead furrowed her brow at him. He seemed to be staring a little longer than necessary, but why? He was a dark skinned man, possibly African-American, although she could not tell for certain, as most of his face was hidden by the dark glasses and a full gray mustache, under which his mouth was a straight, unchanging line. He did not show any expression of surprise or befuddlement, just a blank stare (*through sunglasses). He was an elderly gent.
Finally the tall man turned back to the bus driver, hands outstretched in some last plea, but he seemed to be entirely out of luck. Shrugging and shaking his head, he leapt quickly from the bus doorway and past Lisa as quickly as he had appeared without so much as a glance her way. As he vanished into the city horizon and behind the neighborhood diner, Lisa heard a murmur of applause sounding from the front of the bus, and the bus driver calmly motioned with his hand for her to climb aboard. Still shaking, she climbed the stairs and, hand still trembling, swiped her Metro Pass in and out of the machine. It didn't seem to work. Then she looked at her hand and saw there was no Metro Pass between her fingers. The thing had somehow vanished! Terrified, she looked at the bus driver, but he raised a calm hand. Lisa frantically turned and looked back, and saw her Metro Pass floating in a small puddle inches from where she had stood a few moments ago. Somehow she had dropped it. She turned only thinking to plea with the bus driver, but he just smiled calmly at her, and waved her on, into the bus.
The baby under her arm, who had been crying, let out a little cackle of relief, tears seemingly wiped away by the cheering passengers.
"But why granny dies?" asked the toddler as she snapped the last buckle in place. He was very excited, partly because the whole idea of "granny" was entirely new to him, and probably partly because they were going out on a trip, and he absolutely loved the outside.
"Step-granny, sweetie" she said, doing some final tuck-ins, "she was your step-granny, remember, not your granny."
His brown eyes had lit up when she'd first told him of her stepmother's passing. She'd rather have kept it all to herself, but he'd overheard her on the speaker-phone when the solicitor called last Tuesday to let her know. Immediately the questions had come pouring out of him, like little challenges, and admittedly, the news had unsettled her enough that she had not, perhaps, explained everything to him as carefully as she would have liked to. He had just started learning about the idea of death, and also, somehow about grandmothers, and where he came from--though she had no idea where these questions came from. Television, probably. She'd never talked to him about grandmothers at any rate. Never had to, so far. And of course, she didn't really expect the concept of a 'step-granny' to register with his baby mind. It was simply that it made her feel better to reiterate the fact. She had asked him several nights since then, lying on her bed before his bed time, and lifting him up and down, "Do you know who your real granny really was?", but he would just let out a funny gleeful coo and try to poke back at her nose again.
Theo now a happy camper in his seat, she opened the small, creaking gate that led away from her small apartment building, checked in her coat pocket for the postal service package notification slip, and finding it there, stepped out. The solicitor, who'd introduced himself as a Mr. A. E. Blakely over the phone, had told her to expect the delivery, which would contain documents pertaining to her inheritance. He also very specifically told her that she would have to pick them up in person--for some reason this was emphasized several times--"in accordance to the late widow Wetherell's last recorded wishes". This was extremely inconvenient as it meant she had to take the morning off from work, but completely in line with Olivia's legacy of doing things. Self-serving and without an ounce of consideration for the difficulties of others, and Blakely insisted upon it. The thought had occurred to Lisa to completely ignore this grand 'summons', and get on with life as usual, but in the end the curiosity of it won her over. Now, Lisa caught herself shivering slightly, and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk to bring her collar up and pull her coat closer around her. Then she realized that it wasn't really that cold outside this morning. Rather, it was an unpleasant nervousness that started freezing in her belly and rode across her body, to her neck. She noticed her hands tremble slightly as she placed them back upon the stroller's handle. What on Earth could the imposing Mrs. Olivia Wetherell, widow of the great Jonathan Wetherell, Esquire have left her estranged stepdaughter as an inheritance? She rolled her eyes at the thought of the intrigue, and pressed on to the bus stop.
Of course, some extra money coming in would be nice. Things weren't particularly bad, especially as a single mother fresh out of medical college. The internship at the forensics lab could be stressful at times (certainly, having to figure out what to do with the baby when called in during the middle of the night could prove a challenge), but it provided enough to keep the two of them pretty comfortable. But you never know, and a little more money would add just that much more padding to their lives. As she pushed the stroller down the street, she could hear the mumbles of Theo talking to himself, accented by the occasional cheerful "Hi!" as they went by others. It started to drizzle lightly, and Lisa was torn from her thoughts in a hurry to get them to the bus stop shelter, which was only a couple of streets away.
They made it before the drizzle turned any heavier. Lisa checked to see if Theo had kept dry, and finding that he had, praised him for it. "That's a good baby," she said, tickling his belly, and he smiled back happily, beaming and nodding that, yes, he was indeed. Catching her breath and allowing a little smile herself, she got up and looked down the street for the dim lights, and just then, the bus had already pulled by. Lisa found herself letting out a sigh of relief, and realized how tense she had been all morning. But here it was, the bus. Despite the trouble of having to take the time off of work, despite the rain, and despite her uneasiness with the task at hand this morning, things were finally afoot. Thank heavens for the bus!
As the would-be passengers formed their line and slowly began boarding, Lisa pulled Theo up, and with him snug under one arm, folded her stroller. She tried to place herself last, since she had the stroller and baby with her. The line took a good couple of minutes to get moving along. Probably due to the rain, there were more people than usual getting on this time, but she didn't mind at all. In fact it was somewhat soothing--she had always found the process of being in line to get somewhere or do something to be very peaceful and relaxing. Whether at airports, grocery stores, or even carnival rides, there was something sure and certain about it. Now, as she moved along with the line, a soft and rather warm (for November) gust of wind blew up from behind her, up against her neck, as though gently goading her forward.
Finally, it was her turn. As the older lady in front of her swiped her Metro Pass, Lisa brought herself to the bus door, the stroller in front of her leaning back against her thigh, and picked around for her Metro Pass from her bag. That in hand, she was just about to climb, when something black and wet whooshed in front of her, leapt over the front of the stroller's slanted front, and right into the bus. Lisa froze in place as drops of cold water that had splashed her on the face began to register their chill, all the calmness she had attained moments ago flushing straight out of her body. And somewhere in that state of shock, her baby started crying.
It seemed like minutes before she came back to the world at large, but in truth it was probably just a few moments. Now, at the doorway of the bus, what sounded like an argument was unfolding. As further chunks of reality settled lazily in, she began to make out that the bus driver was refusing to grant entry to the creature that had slammed past her just moments ago.
She could barely make any words out, but the bus driver was shaking his head as though saying "No, no, no," and creature--or tall man, she could see, now--was attempting to defuse the situation and gain entry to the bus. The bus driver, not giving in, pointed with an adamant straight hand, "Get the hell out of my bus." The tall man, adorned in a wet black fedora and below that, a dripping, full-length black raincoat (no doubt the source of the drops of water that had splashed her) appeared to seem surprised. "Why? What have I done?" The bus driver then pointed down at Lisa, who for a moment looked away a little uncomfortably, but then, realizing how angry she really was, stared back at them.
The tall man turned, somewhat quizzically, to look back at her. He put his hand up to his dark sunglasses, as though checking to make certain she was really there, and then continued to look at her for a few seconds. Lisa returned the gaze, unflinching, and instead furrowed her brow at him. He seemed to be staring a little longer than necessary, but why? He was a dark skinned man, possibly African-American, although she could not tell for certain, as most of his face was hidden by the dark glasses and a full gray mustache, under which his mouth was a straight, unchanging line. He did not show any expression of surprise or befuddlement, just a blank stare (*through sunglasses). He was an elderly gent.
Finally the tall man turned back to the bus driver, hands outstretched in some last plea, but he seemed to be entirely out of luck. Shrugging and shaking his head, he leapt quickly from the bus doorway and past Lisa as quickly as he had appeared without so much as a glance her way. As he vanished into the city horizon and behind the neighborhood diner, Lisa heard a murmur of applause sounding from the front of the bus, and the bus driver calmly motioned with his hand for her to climb aboard. Still shaking, she climbed the stairs and, hand still trembling, swiped her Metro Pass in and out of the machine. It didn't seem to work. Then she looked at her hand and saw there was no Metro Pass between her fingers. The thing had somehow vanished! Terrified, she looked at the bus driver, but he raised a calm hand. Lisa frantically turned and looked back, and saw her Metro Pass floating in a small puddle inches from where she had stood a few moments ago. Somehow she had dropped it. She turned only thinking to plea with the bus driver, but he just smiled calmly at her, and waved her on, into the bus.
The baby under her arm, who had been crying, let out a little cackle of relief, tears seemingly wiped away by the cheering passengers.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Slow Dark Currant
Slow Dark Currant
---
Weather stormy or
whether just making jam,
that taste on your tongue
when the toaster sends its slams.
Waking up in the middle of the kitchen
unable to move all but your vision.
Feet are visible, toes immobile.
A spark shooe's away the light.
Never thought it'd be so obscure,
that spoon of dangerous summer confiture.
Now you can see beyond your knees and feet,
a flame erupt and the rubber slippers crackle, pop and wheeze
Saturday, May 24, 2014
The Kindness and Care Institute For Extremely Gifted Souls
Somehow, the heat and confusion of that day had led Masood to the Center. Well, to the environs of the Center, at least. The outside of the area, where there were benches for students to sit upon, and a circumference of proper soil for one's feet to rest as they may stroll around and around. He sat himself with his feet up on one of the benches next to the 'basketball court type of fence' (this is how he described the fence to me later--I personally know little of fences). The fence kept the gifted souls in, and Masood stretched and lay back in the clear outside afternoon, and he began to watch them. It was like watching bodies in space move about. A small boy was circling around within the fence, playing some sort of game about talking to everything he met, and all the while just spinning around and talking to himself. Nearby, an older man was teaching a little girl how to walk in straight lines, while she joyfully refused and walked in slanting dances instead. As butter and dragon flies fluttered and buzzed around his ears respectively, Masood could hear the elder admonish the child with instruction; but even that admonition was simply a way to engage her and maintain contact, since through that dance it may be possible for her to disappear into separate dimension than he, you or I inhabit.
The pirouetting boy who entertained conversations with himself at different junctures of his swirl bumped into the fence next to him.
Masood laughed, and then he immediately regretted it, because the child now began to have a conversation with him. At first Masood tried to pretend it wasn't happening--he lay his head back on the bench and took in the cool evening breeze that was blowing in the area, ripe with the invigorations of latter light fruit and sultry, goading temptation of she, the sleep.
He had learned of this place through another software developer, one who he held a lot of respect for. He'd come over to call this friend over to party that night, and he was allowed inside the Institute while the friend finished off his tasks. That was last year, or maybe two years ago (memory FAILed him on this matter), and he remembered asking his friend what exactly his work encompassed there. "I just help around, do what I can," his friend had said, sagaciously. It was a little strange, because there were all these people walking around--some his age, others much older, and others even much younger. And they were all somehow singular. "Lives up to its name, this Institute," he remembered musing to himself. His friend must have been in charge of the Institute's entire IT division or something, probably making sure that critical data about all these gifted souls was transmitted wherever it needed to be, in some clear effort to better the whole world.
But today (seemed like year--may have been three years ago, in fact, that he'd met his friend), it had been a terrible day at work, where all his unit tests were failing. Everything had been red on the screen FAIL FAIL FAIL, and now he almost wished he never wrote those damned tests. On top of that, it had been really hot today, with no respite for a man wearing a full sleeved shirt. The child was dressed as any three year old may be, in a singlet and droopy brown pants. He was round little fellow, clearly nourished well enough by his charges.
So he didn't really want to tell the sweet boy that the only thing in his head right now was FAIL FAIL FAIL, in red font. "Sorry," he said, instead, and pulled out his cellphone and pretended to do whatever it is people do with such appendages.
"What's your name?" asked the little boy.
"My name is Masood. What about you?" asked Masood, hoping to be cordial and polite.
"Pullperry," said the boy. "Your phone, is it a real one?" conspired the child. He had stopped rotating, and seemed to be communicating with him via a certain vector.
"No," said Masood, feeling a little exposed. "It's just a toy phone that I carry to play with when I am feeling sleepy." He pressed a button, which made a squeak by no creature existing on Earth, but a computational possibility of one. "See, just a toy one. There's no animals that ever make that sound."
"It's real," said the child, leaning more heavily against the fence. "Give it to me." He was pressing himself against the fence in a way that made Masood feel very uncomfortable, because it looked like the child could be hurting himself by doing it.
"Hey, hey, relax." Masood got off the bench and approached the fence. "Look, Pullperry," he said, taking the childs hands into his, "if you turn around about 270 degrees, you'll find your teacher and your friend too. You know degrees, don't you? I bet you do."
Pullperry's little fingers were digging into his palms, but the boy nodded slowly and turned the whole 270 degrees Masood had asked him to. Masood prepared to congratulate the fellow upon his find. But after a brief pause, all Pullperry did was turn the remaining ninety degrees, and then his body collapsed against the fence, and his head hit the ground. He lay there, crying. "That's not my teacher," he cried, tears wetting the soil near the fence as though threatening landslide. "That's her teacher."
There was a loud sound, almost like a dam bursting and what looked like swishes of deep black hair rushed out of an opening. As the shock wore away, he began to take in her strangely sequined coat, almost snake-skin but not from any snake that he knew, and beneath that, a flowing red gown far too impractical for this kind of work.
Masood began to prepare his lecture about her carelessness, but she pre-empted him, tossing her head toward the door she'd come from. "You have to come in now, they want to ask what you have done."
Masood tried several takes, then, ranging from total denial to looking frantically back at the bench he'd been laying at. "Th-these benches. You're allowed to sit here!" he tried. Then he pointed at the crying child. "This, this guy, he came at *me*" said Masood.
For a moment, it looked as though she wanted to puke in his face--a vomit implying his inherent cowardice. But she recollected herself, and, picking the child up, who conveniently fell asleep upon her bosom, she said, "Come in. You have to. They need to ask you what you have done."
Seeing his fear, she let the left of her mouth curl a little. "Don't worry, it's not that bad inside." And then she flung her head toward the entrance again. "Come in."
"I know it's not that bad, I've been inside before," said Masood angrily.
"So come," she said, and he simply found himself following along the circumference of the fence [there was an entrance a little up ahead].
The pirouetting boy who entertained conversations with himself at different junctures of his swirl bumped into the fence next to him.
Masood laughed, and then he immediately regretted it, because the child now began to have a conversation with him. At first Masood tried to pretend it wasn't happening--he lay his head back on the bench and took in the cool evening breeze that was blowing in the area, ripe with the invigorations of latter light fruit and sultry, goading temptation of she, the sleep.
He had learned of this place through another software developer, one who he held a lot of respect for. He'd come over to call this friend over to party that night, and he was allowed inside the Institute while the friend finished off his tasks. That was last year, or maybe two years ago (memory FAILed him on this matter), and he remembered asking his friend what exactly his work encompassed there. "I just help around, do what I can," his friend had said, sagaciously. It was a little strange, because there were all these people walking around--some his age, others much older, and others even much younger. And they were all somehow singular. "Lives up to its name, this Institute," he remembered musing to himself. His friend must have been in charge of the Institute's entire IT division or something, probably making sure that critical data about all these gifted souls was transmitted wherever it needed to be, in some clear effort to better the whole world.
But today (seemed like year--may have been three years ago, in fact, that he'd met his friend), it had been a terrible day at work, where all his unit tests were failing. Everything had been red on the screen FAIL FAIL FAIL, and now he almost wished he never wrote those damned tests. On top of that, it had been really hot today, with no respite for a man wearing a full sleeved shirt. The child was dressed as any three year old may be, in a singlet and droopy brown pants. He was round little fellow, clearly nourished well enough by his charges.
So he didn't really want to tell the sweet boy that the only thing in his head right now was FAIL FAIL FAIL, in red font. "Sorry," he said, instead, and pulled out his cellphone and pretended to do whatever it is people do with such appendages.
"What's your name?" asked the little boy.
"My name is Masood. What about you?" asked Masood, hoping to be cordial and polite.
"Pullperry," said the boy. "Your phone, is it a real one?" conspired the child. He had stopped rotating, and seemed to be communicating with him via a certain vector.
"No," said Masood, feeling a little exposed. "It's just a toy phone that I carry to play with when I am feeling sleepy." He pressed a button, which made a squeak by no creature existing on Earth, but a computational possibility of one. "See, just a toy one. There's no animals that ever make that sound."
"It's real," said the child, leaning more heavily against the fence. "Give it to me." He was pressing himself against the fence in a way that made Masood feel very uncomfortable, because it looked like the child could be hurting himself by doing it.
"Hey, hey, relax." Masood got off the bench and approached the fence. "Look, Pullperry," he said, taking the childs hands into his, "if you turn around about 270 degrees, you'll find your teacher and your friend too. You know degrees, don't you? I bet you do."
Pullperry's little fingers were digging into his palms, but the boy nodded slowly and turned the whole 270 degrees Masood had asked him to. Masood prepared to congratulate the fellow upon his find. But after a brief pause, all Pullperry did was turn the remaining ninety degrees, and then his body collapsed against the fence, and his head hit the ground. He lay there, crying. "That's not my teacher," he cried, tears wetting the soil near the fence as though threatening landslide. "That's her teacher."
There was a loud sound, almost like a dam bursting and what looked like swishes of deep black hair rushed out of an opening. As the shock wore away, he began to take in her strangely sequined coat, almost snake-skin but not from any snake that he knew, and beneath that, a flowing red gown far too impractical for this kind of work.
Masood began to prepare his lecture about her carelessness, but she pre-empted him, tossing her head toward the door she'd come from. "You have to come in now, they want to ask what you have done."
Masood tried several takes, then, ranging from total denial to looking frantically back at the bench he'd been laying at. "Th-these benches. You're allowed to sit here!" he tried. Then he pointed at the crying child. "This, this guy, he came at *me*" said Masood.
For a moment, it looked as though she wanted to puke in his face--a vomit implying his inherent cowardice. But she recollected herself, and, picking the child up, who conveniently fell asleep upon her bosom, she said, "Come in. You have to. They need to ask you what you have done."
Seeing his fear, she let the left of her mouth curl a little. "Don't worry, it's not that bad inside." And then she flung her head toward the entrance again. "Come in."
"I know it's not that bad, I've been inside before," said Masood angrily.
"So come," she said, and he simply found himself following along the circumference of the fence [there was an entrance a little up ahead].
Friday, April 18, 2014
The Envelope
"Description": "An often neglected field. People feel there is no need for description when the content speaks for itself."
"Stamp": Usually US. Dunno.
"Content": "blah blah blah. howothchoo! skootle."
"InitialTransport": "Internet"
The program reviewed the envelope.
"Are you sure that is a stamp?" it said, checking closer.
"It's a fucking stamp. Pretty sure I didn't skimp on 89 cents, or whatever it is you people charge these days."
"You know you can buy in bulk," it said. "Don't have to go to the deli every time."
This was a pretty catastrophic situation. It was true that it was possible to get stamps in bulk, eliminating the need to walk on out of the apartment unit and go all the way to the deli and get a stamp.
"It's the only time I ever leave," he said, carefully, so as not to hurt the feelings of the bulkers. "One time a month, I allow myself an opportunity to go outside of my unit, see the world."
There was a tone of care and the notion of a lot of thought being put in: "No. I don't think you should," it said.
"Don't you think I should at least experience reality once a month?"
A very worried voice entered the fray. "No, I don't think so. I think you should get in bulk. Just automate."
"My hair is getting long," he told the machine. "Going to have to go outside and get a crew cut soon."
"Yeah, that's okay," it replied. "But you come back as soon as it's all done."
"Stamp": Usually US. Dunno.
"Content": "blah blah blah. howothchoo! skootle."
"InitialTransport": "Internet"
The program reviewed the envelope.
"Are you sure that is a stamp?" it said, checking closer.
"It's a fucking stamp. Pretty sure I didn't skimp on 89 cents, or whatever it is you people charge these days."
"You know you can buy in bulk," it said. "Don't have to go to the deli every time."
This was a pretty catastrophic situation. It was true that it was possible to get stamps in bulk, eliminating the need to walk on out of the apartment unit and go all the way to the deli and get a stamp.
"It's the only time I ever leave," he said, carefully, so as not to hurt the feelings of the bulkers. "One time a month, I allow myself an opportunity to go outside of my unit, see the world."
There was a tone of care and the notion of a lot of thought being put in: "No. I don't think you should," it said.
"Don't you think I should at least experience reality once a month?"
A very worried voice entered the fray. "No, I don't think so. I think you should get in bulk. Just automate."
"My hair is getting long," he told the machine. "Going to have to go outside and get a crew cut soon."
"Yeah, that's okay," it replied. "But you come back as soon as it's all done."
Monday, April 7, 2014
the (un) limited options
"Very upset here," came the missive, and it was carried by avian messengers following the full specs discussed in an online RFC.
He smiled naturally--that is, without effort--suggesting that this may his constant state.
His blood was sneaking into the fibers of the wood floor, and he began to dare a dream (for what could a man who smiles so naturally dare dream?)
In this dream, the personas were given a lot of memory. A lot more memory than may actually be, how do you say it, 'necessary'. And with these memories, they began to operate. They followed simple instructions, and sought even simpler instruction. Over time, they realised that these memories were them, and they were these memory. And then they realized that they were giving form. They were the ones shaping his dreams.
"Commander One to Research 35," came the request for acknowledgement.
"Acknowledged," said Research 35.
"Recorded. So...my real question, what I meant to say, wa--"
"Arrive tilted just yay-so, and hit brakes as soon as you realize you are using your legs."
.
There was no response for aeons. At Research 35, a new turntable was purchased, and one record. Someone actually walked out to get a coffee. And then that slowly turned into getting a container of the stuff mixed and blended to last a few months. There was a short romance with creamers, but very short lived. Eventually the universe just stopped asking if sugar.
Then he signed in again. "Of course there's no sugar," he promised. "And no cream."
Research 35 pressed the voice button and told him that she wanted to know what was in the package *before* anyone had a chance to see what was inside.
Commander One adopted a circling pattern, which made Research 35 feel better. So he was actually listening.
"Your approach is educated, Commander One," she said, "but I still want to know what's inside first."
He pulled an Immelmann. She could tell he was thinking. There was just a whole range of aerobatics that followed. He was thinking really hard.
And then, just when it was assumed a missile could be the only recourse, he broke the radio's silence. "I've been thinking," he suggested.
"Oh have you now?" she returned.
"Look. It's not about what's inside."
"So it's about what's outside?"
There was a short silence again, then, "No. It's about what isn't inside."
Research 35 zoomed in. There wasn't a pilot. "Where are you hiding?" she yelled. "The landing gear is NOT safe!"
The plane landed calmly and taxied to its spot. A ghost breezed past the emergency team, with a very personal message intended for delivery.
"What have you done, what have you done?" were the cries.
He smiled, naturally. "There was a part of me that was mean and vengeful. And cursed," he said. "And at times, I suppose I thought it was necessary, that horrible substance residing close to me. And I got rid of it."
"How can I tell?" she said.
"You can't," he told her flatly. "But I can. And gradually, I am going to prove it by creating more, new memories."
"It's always been about those memories, huh?" said Research 35. "Isn't that a little self-absorbed?"
"Maybe so," he shrugged. "But all that really matters is that there's no more bad ones."
He smiled naturally--that is, without effort--suggesting that this may his constant state.
His blood was sneaking into the fibers of the wood floor, and he began to dare a dream (for what could a man who smiles so naturally dare dream?)
In this dream, the personas were given a lot of memory. A lot more memory than may actually be, how do you say it, 'necessary'. And with these memories, they began to operate. They followed simple instructions, and sought even simpler instruction. Over time, they realised that these memories were them, and they were these memory. And then they realized that they were giving form. They were the ones shaping his dreams.
"Commander One to Research 35," came the request for acknowledgement.
"Acknowledged," said Research 35.
"Recorded. So...my real question, what I meant to say, wa--"
"Arrive tilted just yay-so, and hit brakes as soon as you realize you are using your legs."
.
There was no response for aeons. At Research 35, a new turntable was purchased, and one record. Someone actually walked out to get a coffee. And then that slowly turned into getting a container of the stuff mixed and blended to last a few months. There was a short romance with creamers, but very short lived. Eventually the universe just stopped asking if sugar.
Then he signed in again. "Of course there's no sugar," he promised. "And no cream."
Research 35 pressed the voice button and told him that she wanted to know what was in the package *before* anyone had a chance to see what was inside.
Commander One adopted a circling pattern, which made Research 35 feel better. So he was actually listening.
"Your approach is educated, Commander One," she said, "but I still want to know what's inside first."
He pulled an Immelmann. She could tell he was thinking. There was just a whole range of aerobatics that followed. He was thinking really hard.
And then, just when it was assumed a missile could be the only recourse, he broke the radio's silence. "I've been thinking," he suggested.
"Oh have you now?" she returned.
"Look. It's not about what's inside."
"So it's about what's outside?"
There was a short silence again, then, "No. It's about what isn't inside."
Research 35 zoomed in. There wasn't a pilot. "Where are you hiding?" she yelled. "The landing gear is NOT safe!"
The plane landed calmly and taxied to its spot. A ghost breezed past the emergency team, with a very personal message intended for delivery.
"What have you done, what have you done?" were the cries.
He smiled, naturally. "There was a part of me that was mean and vengeful. And cursed," he said. "And at times, I suppose I thought it was necessary, that horrible substance residing close to me. And I got rid of it."
"How can I tell?" she said.
"You can't," he told her flatly. "But I can. And gradually, I am going to prove it by creating more, new memories."
"It's always been about those memories, huh?" said Research 35. "Isn't that a little self-absorbed?"
"Maybe so," he shrugged. "But all that really matters is that there's no more bad ones."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)