For the 12/11/09 Friday challenge.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
What I want
For the Friday Challenge 12/11/09 - write a letter to Santa
Voice 1
Do your best.
I try so hard.
Not good enough.
I bury my heart.
I want to be loved.
You don’t deserve it.
What do I deserve?
To be punished.
Voice 2
Come to me and I will take away all your pain and give you pleasure.
Here I am.
Eat. Drink. Rebel.
It tastes so good. No more trying.
The pain is back. The pleasure is gone.
Eat more. Drink more. Rebel harder.
It hurts more. You lie. I am going.
Too late. I have you now.
Voice 3
Come to me and receive my love.
I am imprisoned.
Ask me to free you.
Free me. Rescue me. Deliver me.
I want to be loved.
I love you.
I want to be enjoyed.
I enjoy you. I treasure you. I sing over you.
Do my will.
I am not good enough.
Your strength is not needed. Use mine.
Hold my hand. Don’t let me fall.
It hurts. I want to eat. I want to drink. That used to take the pain away.
Your suffering now will be for your good later. If you don’t eat. If you don’t drink.
Will you take away all my pain?
One day pain will have no more purpose. I will wipe away your tears with my own hand.
Will you punish me?
I took all your punishment.
Will you give me pleasure?
You were created for pleasure. You will find pleasure in me and in all creation.
Will I accomplish something good?
I will accomplish great glory through you.
I accept.
Inspired by Green by Ted Dekker. Voice 2 is the vampire Marsuve.
Voice 1
Do your best.
I try so hard.
Not good enough.
I bury my heart.
I want to be loved.
You don’t deserve it.
What do I deserve?
To be punished.
Voice 2
Come to me and I will take away all your pain and give you pleasure.
Here I am.
Eat. Drink. Rebel.
It tastes so good. No more trying.
The pain is back. The pleasure is gone.
Eat more. Drink more. Rebel harder.
It hurts more. You lie. I am going.
Too late. I have you now.
Voice 3
Come to me and receive my love.
I am imprisoned.
Ask me to free you.
Free me. Rescue me. Deliver me.
I want to be loved.
I love you.
I want to be enjoyed.
I enjoy you. I treasure you. I sing over you.
Do my will.
I am not good enough.
Your strength is not needed. Use mine.
Hold my hand. Don’t let me fall.
It hurts. I want to eat. I want to drink. That used to take the pain away.
Your suffering now will be for your good later. If you don’t eat. If you don’t drink.
Will you take away all my pain?
One day pain will have no more purpose. I will wipe away your tears with my own hand.
Will you punish me?
I took all your punishment.
Will you give me pleasure?
You were created for pleasure. You will find pleasure in me and in all creation.
Will I accomplish something good?
I will accomplish great glory through you.
I accept.
Inspired by Green by Ted Dekker. Voice 2 is the vampire Marsuve.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
S&M Vampire Girls
The Friday Challenge for 10/16/09 - The second annual Halloween story challenge
Amber turned her head away as soon as the scene was over, so the camera wouldn’t see her clench her teeth. They had shot it eleven times, and if she had to do it one more time, she knew she would lose it. She walked over to pick up her cigarettes and then moved toward the door. She had to get outside and calmed down somehow.
She managed to get out without the others noticing, although it was only a matter of time before that ape Tommy would be out here, supposedly smoking, but what he would really be doing was drinking beer out of the cooler he had stashed in the director’s car.
She wrenched her thoughts away from Tommy. Thinking about him would only cause her to be more upset, and she still had a small hope that this movie would lead to something, so she didn’t want to go berserk in front of everybody.
“Are you okay?” Amber jumped a little at the voice, but it was only Lynn, the actress playing the other vampire. Lynn was perfect for the part, and Deanna had done a great job on her makeup. She looked exactly like a female vampire ought to look, and she played her part with wicked enjoyment.
“Yeah, I just really needed a smoke,” she replied to Lynn’s question.
Lynn smiled knowingly. “That a*****e Tommy is ruining the film, isn’t he? I don’t know how much more of this I want to put up with.”
Surprised at this admission, Amber looked into Lynn’s eyes. “I didn’t know he was bothering you, too. You are really a good actress, because you make it look like you think he’s great.”
“Well, that’s what the role calls for. I’m supposed to think he’s cool. What I’d really like to do is torture him for a couple of days and then kill him in the most painful way I could think of.” She smiled again.
“Wow. I’d love to see that,” said Amber, her voice oozing with admiration.
Lynn looked at Amber thoughtfully. “Would it help you get through the rest of the scenes if I told you I have a plan to get revenge on him? I guarantee I will make him pay for every time he has touched me when we weren’t shooting. The slob can’t keep his hands to himself. And he gets right in my face with his disgusting tequila breath. Yuk.”
Amber giggled. She couldn’t help herself. “What are you going to do?”
“We don’t have time to go into details. Just believe me: he will be sorry he ever laid eyes on us. Here he comes. Let’s go back inside.”
The two girls walked back into the house huddled together, giggling and whispering, completely ignoring Tommy’s loud protestations.
As the evening progressed, Tommy got more and more obnoxious to all the women, and more irritating to the men, even to the point of telling Carlos how to direct and Michael how to shoot each scene. He changed the script on the fly, adding his own little touches, like bumping the ax into Shanna's jaw, the actress playing the part of the wife in the home invasion, who was to be beheaded with it in the next scene. He didn’t bump her hard enough to leave a bruise, but it was obvious she didn’t like him flourishing it in her face. She channeled her anger into her acting, however, which produced a superbly triumphant performance.
Tommy’s growing belligerence was explained when a crew member caught him drinking out of a bottle of tequila he had found in a kitchen cabinet. One thing he was really good at was ignoring anybody who told him not to drink, so the crew member eventually resorted to hiding the bottle. That didn’t faze him in the least. He just rummaged around the cabinets until he found a different bottle, bourbon this time.
A quick conference was held the next time Tommy was outside, and Carlos decided to try salvaging the movie by getting the filming done as soon as possible, before the actor became too drunk to continue. He cut some scenes and shortened others, and finally the last scene was done for the second home invasion.
The movie consisted of two home invasions done by Tommy and James, and the first one had already been filmed. All that was left on the schedule for today was the night scene with the car. Tommy and James were supposed to stop on the road to help with a flat tire, although they were only interested in chasing away the two men and absconding with the two women, who turned out to be the vampire girls participating in the second home invasion. Of course, Tommy and James hadn't yet learned they were vampires.
Making sure James was driving the SUV, Carlos, Michael, Tommy, and the vampire girls drove off to find a good spot to film the flat tire scene. The remaining actors and crew gathered in the kitchen to snack on pizza, soda, cheese and crackers.
“Finally! He's gone!” gloated Deanna.
“Yeah!” seconded Dan, who had played the husband. He fingered the holes in his t-shirt made by the special effects bullets. “I'm glad it was James who shot me. I would have freaked out if Tommy had pointed that gun at me.”
“I am so sick of that loudmouth jerk. He won't listen to anybody, not even Carlos. I kept pulling him outside to smoke because he wouldn't stop talking when they were filming. They'll probably have to throw out most of what they shot tonight.”
The others joined in the venting session, listing Tommy's many faults as an actor and a man. When they ran out of new character defects, they pulled out their phones and texted for a while.
After what seemed like forever, the SUV returned. Carlos gathered everyone together to let them know he wanted to continue filming the next day.
“We will be shooting the scenes where James and Tommy find out the girls are really vampires, so I need all of you to meet at eight at Tommy's house, except for Dan and Shanna of course. If any of you need the address or directions, talk to Tommy.”
“It's gonna be a party!” Tommy burst out. “Lots of food and beer and anything else you want. It's gonna be a real party!” He walked around through the group, repeating himself with great enthusiasm, while Lynn rolled her eyes and smirked at Amber.
The next night was a dark and cloudy one, but inside Tommy's house all the lights were on, and there was a lot of food, beer, and noise. Carlos seemed irritable, perhaps because he had been watching what had been filmed the previous night.
“I want you two over here, and James here, and Amber, down on the floor here. Okay, QUIET!” He glanced at Tommy, then said, “Action!”
James bent down toward Amber and began strangling her, laughing cruelly. She struggled and choked dutifully. After shooting that several times with variations suggested by Carlos, the scene shifted to Tommy and Lynn.
“You grab her and take a handful of her hair to hold her head back. Then you try to bite her on the neck. She gets mad and pushes you away. Got it?” Tommy and Lynn nodded, and Carlos called, “Quiet! Action!”
The scene went according to plan up until Tommy decided to add some pawing of Lynn's breast while he was trying to bite her neck. She snarled and wrenched his hand away, gouging his wrist with her nails. As Tommy howled in pain, she shoved him into the wall, and he slid down and landed hard on the floor.
“Wow, that was great, Tommy!” Carlos leaned toward Michael and muttered, “See, he really is a good actor.”
Tommy slowly got to his feet, looking a little dazed. Then he noticed his wrist was bleeding.
“YOU B**CH!” he yelled. “YOU CUT ME!” He stomped over to Lynn with a vicious look on his face.
Lynn leaned toward him and said very quietly, “You keep your hands off of me or you'll be the b**ch.”
Tommy looked at her with a strange expression on his face, as if he couldn't figure out what she was telling him. He evidently decided she wasn't making any sense, so he ignored her and went into the bathroom to clean up his wrist.
As the evening progressed, Tommy continued to take liberties with Lynn during the scenes, and she continued to fend him off. Finally they reached the scene where the vampire girls get tired of the men trying to kill them, and they turn the tables.
Carlos was very pleased at this point. He could hardly believe his luck in finding such a good actress as Lynn, who was obviously bringing out the best in Tommy. James and Amber were doing a good job, too. The film was turning into magic in his mind. He took extra care to set up the climactic scene, and called, “Quiet! Action!” with great enthusiasm.
This scene called for Lynn and Amber to overcome the two men by their vampire charisma and put them into a trance. Then they were to bite their necks and drain their blood. The girls had been instructed how to use the fake teeth and the fake blood to make it look real, and they did a good job. It looked incredibly real.
But with each take, Carlos grew more disappointed. He wasn't sure what was wrong, but something was missing. James and Amber were doing pretty well, but Tommy was messing it all up. He had become quiet. Too quiet.
“Tommy! You are too quiet. Ham it up! Moan like you're having sex. You're just lying there, and it's boring!”
Tommy tried. He moaned, but so softly it was hard to hear.
Carlos exploded at him. “What's wrong with you? Come on! Put something into it, for Pete's sake!”
Tommy sat up and groaned. “I don't feel good. I need some beer.”
Carlos threw up his hands in disgust. “Somebody get him some beer, and let's take a break.” He walked out of the room.
After two beers, Tommy agreed to try the scene again. Everybody took their positions and the camera began recording. Tommy started out moaning loudly, and James was hamming it up, too, but then Tommy grew so quiet he looked almost dead.
Carlos impatiently called, “Cut!” Amber sat up tiredly, but Lynn only laughed coldly and kept on draining Tommy's blood.
“Cut, I said! CUT!”
He stared at Lynn in disbelief. What was she doing? Finally, Lynn raised her head, a single drop of blood ran down her chin, and she said, “Okay, I'm done. Wait, one more thing.”
She walked over to her backpack and pulled out a long wooden stake. Returning to Tommy's body, she plunged it into his heart.
“You better keep that in there. We wouldn't want him to return as a vampire.”
She picked up her pack and walked out.
Nobody moved for several seconds, then Carlos turned to Michael. “Did you get that?”
Amber turned her head away as soon as the scene was over, so the camera wouldn’t see her clench her teeth. They had shot it eleven times, and if she had to do it one more time, she knew she would lose it. She walked over to pick up her cigarettes and then moved toward the door. She had to get outside and calmed down somehow.
She managed to get out without the others noticing, although it was only a matter of time before that ape Tommy would be out here, supposedly smoking, but what he would really be doing was drinking beer out of the cooler he had stashed in the director’s car.
She wrenched her thoughts away from Tommy. Thinking about him would only cause her to be more upset, and she still had a small hope that this movie would lead to something, so she didn’t want to go berserk in front of everybody.
“Are you okay?” Amber jumped a little at the voice, but it was only Lynn, the actress playing the other vampire. Lynn was perfect for the part, and Deanna had done a great job on her makeup. She looked exactly like a female vampire ought to look, and she played her part with wicked enjoyment.
“Yeah, I just really needed a smoke,” she replied to Lynn’s question.
Lynn smiled knowingly. “That a*****e Tommy is ruining the film, isn’t he? I don’t know how much more of this I want to put up with.”
Surprised at this admission, Amber looked into Lynn’s eyes. “I didn’t know he was bothering you, too. You are really a good actress, because you make it look like you think he’s great.”
“Well, that’s what the role calls for. I’m supposed to think he’s cool. What I’d really like to do is torture him for a couple of days and then kill him in the most painful way I could think of.” She smiled again.
“Wow. I’d love to see that,” said Amber, her voice oozing with admiration.
Lynn looked at Amber thoughtfully. “Would it help you get through the rest of the scenes if I told you I have a plan to get revenge on him? I guarantee I will make him pay for every time he has touched me when we weren’t shooting. The slob can’t keep his hands to himself. And he gets right in my face with his disgusting tequila breath. Yuk.”
Amber giggled. She couldn’t help herself. “What are you going to do?”
“We don’t have time to go into details. Just believe me: he will be sorry he ever laid eyes on us. Here he comes. Let’s go back inside.”
The two girls walked back into the house huddled together, giggling and whispering, completely ignoring Tommy’s loud protestations.
As the evening progressed, Tommy got more and more obnoxious to all the women, and more irritating to the men, even to the point of telling Carlos how to direct and Michael how to shoot each scene. He changed the script on the fly, adding his own little touches, like bumping the ax into Shanna's jaw, the actress playing the part of the wife in the home invasion, who was to be beheaded with it in the next scene. He didn’t bump her hard enough to leave a bruise, but it was obvious she didn’t like him flourishing it in her face. She channeled her anger into her acting, however, which produced a superbly triumphant performance.
Tommy’s growing belligerence was explained when a crew member caught him drinking out of a bottle of tequila he had found in a kitchen cabinet. One thing he was really good at was ignoring anybody who told him not to drink, so the crew member eventually resorted to hiding the bottle. That didn’t faze him in the least. He just rummaged around the cabinets until he found a different bottle, bourbon this time.
A quick conference was held the next time Tommy was outside, and Carlos decided to try salvaging the movie by getting the filming done as soon as possible, before the actor became too drunk to continue. He cut some scenes and shortened others, and finally the last scene was done for the second home invasion.
The movie consisted of two home invasions done by Tommy and James, and the first one had already been filmed. All that was left on the schedule for today was the night scene with the car. Tommy and James were supposed to stop on the road to help with a flat tire, although they were only interested in chasing away the two men and absconding with the two women, who turned out to be the vampire girls participating in the second home invasion. Of course, Tommy and James hadn't yet learned they were vampires.
Making sure James was driving the SUV, Carlos, Michael, Tommy, and the vampire girls drove off to find a good spot to film the flat tire scene. The remaining actors and crew gathered in the kitchen to snack on pizza, soda, cheese and crackers.
“Finally! He's gone!” gloated Deanna.
“Yeah!” seconded Dan, who had played the husband. He fingered the holes in his t-shirt made by the special effects bullets. “I'm glad it was James who shot me. I would have freaked out if Tommy had pointed that gun at me.”
“I am so sick of that loudmouth jerk. He won't listen to anybody, not even Carlos. I kept pulling him outside to smoke because he wouldn't stop talking when they were filming. They'll probably have to throw out most of what they shot tonight.”
The others joined in the venting session, listing Tommy's many faults as an actor and a man. When they ran out of new character defects, they pulled out their phones and texted for a while.
After what seemed like forever, the SUV returned. Carlos gathered everyone together to let them know he wanted to continue filming the next day.
“We will be shooting the scenes where James and Tommy find out the girls are really vampires, so I need all of you to meet at eight at Tommy's house, except for Dan and Shanna of course. If any of you need the address or directions, talk to Tommy.”
“It's gonna be a party!” Tommy burst out. “Lots of food and beer and anything else you want. It's gonna be a real party!” He walked around through the group, repeating himself with great enthusiasm, while Lynn rolled her eyes and smirked at Amber.
The next night was a dark and cloudy one, but inside Tommy's house all the lights were on, and there was a lot of food, beer, and noise. Carlos seemed irritable, perhaps because he had been watching what had been filmed the previous night.
“I want you two over here, and James here, and Amber, down on the floor here. Okay, QUIET!” He glanced at Tommy, then said, “Action!”
James bent down toward Amber and began strangling her, laughing cruelly. She struggled and choked dutifully. After shooting that several times with variations suggested by Carlos, the scene shifted to Tommy and Lynn.
“You grab her and take a handful of her hair to hold her head back. Then you try to bite her on the neck. She gets mad and pushes you away. Got it?” Tommy and Lynn nodded, and Carlos called, “Quiet! Action!”
The scene went according to plan up until Tommy decided to add some pawing of Lynn's breast while he was trying to bite her neck. She snarled and wrenched his hand away, gouging his wrist with her nails. As Tommy howled in pain, she shoved him into the wall, and he slid down and landed hard on the floor.
“Wow, that was great, Tommy!” Carlos leaned toward Michael and muttered, “See, he really is a good actor.”
Tommy slowly got to his feet, looking a little dazed. Then he noticed his wrist was bleeding.
“YOU B**CH!” he yelled. “YOU CUT ME!” He stomped over to Lynn with a vicious look on his face.
Lynn leaned toward him and said very quietly, “You keep your hands off of me or you'll be the b**ch.”
Tommy looked at her with a strange expression on his face, as if he couldn't figure out what she was telling him. He evidently decided she wasn't making any sense, so he ignored her and went into the bathroom to clean up his wrist.
As the evening progressed, Tommy continued to take liberties with Lynn during the scenes, and she continued to fend him off. Finally they reached the scene where the vampire girls get tired of the men trying to kill them, and they turn the tables.
Carlos was very pleased at this point. He could hardly believe his luck in finding such a good actress as Lynn, who was obviously bringing out the best in Tommy. James and Amber were doing a good job, too. The film was turning into magic in his mind. He took extra care to set up the climactic scene, and called, “Quiet! Action!” with great enthusiasm.
This scene called for Lynn and Amber to overcome the two men by their vampire charisma and put them into a trance. Then they were to bite their necks and drain their blood. The girls had been instructed how to use the fake teeth and the fake blood to make it look real, and they did a good job. It looked incredibly real.
But with each take, Carlos grew more disappointed. He wasn't sure what was wrong, but something was missing. James and Amber were doing pretty well, but Tommy was messing it all up. He had become quiet. Too quiet.
“Tommy! You are too quiet. Ham it up! Moan like you're having sex. You're just lying there, and it's boring!”
Tommy tried. He moaned, but so softly it was hard to hear.
Carlos exploded at him. “What's wrong with you? Come on! Put something into it, for Pete's sake!”
Tommy sat up and groaned. “I don't feel good. I need some beer.”
Carlos threw up his hands in disgust. “Somebody get him some beer, and let's take a break.” He walked out of the room.
After two beers, Tommy agreed to try the scene again. Everybody took their positions and the camera began recording. Tommy started out moaning loudly, and James was hamming it up, too, but then Tommy grew so quiet he looked almost dead.
Carlos impatiently called, “Cut!” Amber sat up tiredly, but Lynn only laughed coldly and kept on draining Tommy's blood.
“Cut, I said! CUT!”
He stared at Lynn in disbelief. What was she doing? Finally, Lynn raised her head, a single drop of blood ran down her chin, and she said, “Okay, I'm done. Wait, one more thing.”
She walked over to her backpack and pulled out a long wooden stake. Returning to Tommy's body, she plunged it into his heart.
“You better keep that in there. We wouldn't want him to return as a vampire.”
She picked up her pack and walked out.
Nobody moved for several seconds, then Carlos turned to Michael. “Did you get that?”
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Six Million Centavos Man
Entry for The Friday Challenge 9/18/09 Since it's a picture, you really need to look at it to understand the story.
Carlos did a double take at his computer screen, and his jaw dropped as he stared at the strange picture that had been posted on his favorite blog. It wasn't the strangeness of it, but rather its familiarity that had caught his attention.
He rummaged through the papers on his desk and finally found the letter he had received from his grandfather's lawyer last week. He pulled out the enclosed picture and looked at it again. It looked like the same picture, but when he held it up to the screen, he saw it was slightly different. It had the same people, but their expressions and positions weren't quite identical. Except for the thing in the middle. That part was exactly the same.
The pictures showed a dozen or so men, dressed like Mexican soldiers, all with ammunition belts crossed over their chests and another one around their waists. They each had a rifle poised butt down on the dirt. In the center of the group was something that looked like the tin woodsman out of The Wizard of Oz, only he also had the rifle and ammunition belts, and he stood a foot taller than most of the men.
Carlos opened the letter and read it again. It seemed very ordinary, just a letter informing him that his grandfather had left him this picture and some papers which he would be expected to pick up at his earliest convenience and please call for an appointment, etc. He hadn't called yet. It didn't seem urgent, since he was unaware of anything valuable owned by his grandfather.
A week later, Carlos walked in to the lawyer's office, picture in hand. The papers were quite interesting, especially the one that gave the names of the men in the picture, and also the name of the metal man, “Centavos Man.” However, Carlos' grandfather had given him the nickname “The Six Million Centavos Man” after the TV show. Carlos remembered his grandfather watching that show and laughing at its name.
As the lawyer answered his many questions, he learned that each man in the photo had a similar picture, and each had arranged with a lawyer to keep in touch with the other lawyers, and when the last man in the picture had died, all the next of kin would be sent the pictures and receive this same information.
“But why wait until they were all dead?” puzzled Carlos.
“Because they could still be charged with murder if they were alive,” explained the lawyer. “This group of men were known as the Centavos Gang. They robbed quite a few banks in their day, and anything else that had money. But they only took pennies, or in Mexico, centavos. There were a few people that were shot during their robberies, and some died. I've just learned all this myself, now that we could open the papers left in our care by your grandfather.”
Carlos sat in silence, absorbing it all. He had no idea his grandfather had such an interesting past. But where was the money? Had it been melted down and used to make Centavos Man? And if so, where was he?
There were still many unanswered questions, and several more papers to study. Time to meet the other relatives. If they put their heads together, they might figure it out and end up rich. He was going to start with the person who ran that blog.
Carlos did a double take at his computer screen, and his jaw dropped as he stared at the strange picture that had been posted on his favorite blog. It wasn't the strangeness of it, but rather its familiarity that had caught his attention.
He rummaged through the papers on his desk and finally found the letter he had received from his grandfather's lawyer last week. He pulled out the enclosed picture and looked at it again. It looked like the same picture, but when he held it up to the screen, he saw it was slightly different. It had the same people, but their expressions and positions weren't quite identical. Except for the thing in the middle. That part was exactly the same.
The pictures showed a dozen or so men, dressed like Mexican soldiers, all with ammunition belts crossed over their chests and another one around their waists. They each had a rifle poised butt down on the dirt. In the center of the group was something that looked like the tin woodsman out of The Wizard of Oz, only he also had the rifle and ammunition belts, and he stood a foot taller than most of the men.
Carlos opened the letter and read it again. It seemed very ordinary, just a letter informing him that his grandfather had left him this picture and some papers which he would be expected to pick up at his earliest convenience and please call for an appointment, etc. He hadn't called yet. It didn't seem urgent, since he was unaware of anything valuable owned by his grandfather.
A week later, Carlos walked in to the lawyer's office, picture in hand. The papers were quite interesting, especially the one that gave the names of the men in the picture, and also the name of the metal man, “Centavos Man.” However, Carlos' grandfather had given him the nickname “The Six Million Centavos Man” after the TV show. Carlos remembered his grandfather watching that show and laughing at its name.
As the lawyer answered his many questions, he learned that each man in the photo had a similar picture, and each had arranged with a lawyer to keep in touch with the other lawyers, and when the last man in the picture had died, all the next of kin would be sent the pictures and receive this same information.
“But why wait until they were all dead?” puzzled Carlos.
“Because they could still be charged with murder if they were alive,” explained the lawyer. “This group of men were known as the Centavos Gang. They robbed quite a few banks in their day, and anything else that had money. But they only took pennies, or in Mexico, centavos. There were a few people that were shot during their robberies, and some died. I've just learned all this myself, now that we could open the papers left in our care by your grandfather.”
Carlos sat in silence, absorbing it all. He had no idea his grandfather had such an interesting past. But where was the money? Had it been melted down and used to make Centavos Man? And if so, where was he?
There were still many unanswered questions, and several more papers to study. Time to meet the other relatives. If they put their heads together, they might figure it out and end up rich. He was going to start with the person who ran that blog.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Nine Eleven
Friday Challenge 9/11/09 - memories
At the time the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I was driving to work. The radio was on, but it wasn’t a station that had news, or at least not the what’s-happening-right-this-minute kind of news. I got all the way to my cubicle on the fourth and top floor of the Hornet building and settled in to start work before Tom popped his head over the cubicle wall and told me about it.
Now you have to keep in mind the fact that Tom always popped his head over the cubicle wall and said something strange. Often he just woofed at me (he has Saint Bernards, and yes that is plural) and disappeared. I think this might have been his way of saying it was a good day and he was feeling great. He always got me laughing, and he is a good programmer, which is sometimes a rarity.
By the time Tom told me about the first plane, there were already rumors about a helicopter crashing at the pentagon. At least they knew there was a lot of black smoke there. So it never really seemed to me like it could have been an accident. There was a debate going on amongst the fourth floor occupants about it, but that ended shortly when the second plane crashed into the other tower. After that, nobody did much work. Radios were on all over the building.
The Hornet building, named after the street it is on, is the counterpart of the building ~brb was in that day. It is about a mile from the end of a main runway at Lambert. The usual wind direction made it a main runway for planes taking off. Depending what direction they were aiming for, they would often go right over us. If you happened to be looking at the windows, you would see the plane’s shadow block the sunlight for half a second. Larger planes made the building shake. Being on the top floor made it louder. Sometimes in a meeting or on the phone we would have to wait for the noise to die down before continuing. I had been there for a few months, but I still noticed when the building shook.
When the planes stopped, all the radios became noticeable. And every morning for weeks after that, I noticed the fighter jets taking off. It was the same time every day, and there were always four of them, about a minute apart. No matter how deep my brain was into a program, it came back up at the sound of that first jet, counted four of them, and only then would it be able to return to the task at hand.
And boy, do I remember the day a couple weeks later that plane near Chicago failed to identify itself! I swear there were at least a dozen fighters streaking off to Chicago. It was obvious something was happening, but none of the radios or web sites had any information. I didn’t hear what it was until that evening. Didn’t get much done that day, either.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
As for making sense of it, I just now figured it out. I know, I know, I'm really gullible and naïve.
Hey, there are two dots over that “i.” When did that start happening? The computer knows what word I'm using the “i” in, and puts one or two dots accordingly? But … those two dots are German, aren't they? And naïve is a French word, isn't it? Blastit.
Being here at The Friday Challenge has opened my eyes to a lot of things. Not just books I never heard of, but new ideas to argue about, and gobs of conspiracy theories. But they are hidden very well, and if it hadn't been for the new view on life that I picked up in Nashville this summer, I probably wouldn't have noticed a thing.
The tip-off was Topher's tale of Pompeii's last summer. I searched for disasters in 1883 (and found Krakatoa), and there were loads of them. I never knew about most of them. And it wasn't just 1883. There were disasters every year that wiped out whole villages or families. I began to notice the islands. They seemed to have an affinity for wiping out whole islands, or at least getting rid of all the people on them. There was that island off the eastern seaboard in the sixteenth century. All the people just disappeared.
Manhattan is an island.
I believe their original plan was to convince New Yorkers that Manhattan was sinking, and to fix it they needed to saw off the island, tow it out a ways, turn it around, and push it back.** The only problem was that Long Island was in the way. Of course, what they didn't tell the New Yorkers was that they had no intention of pushing the island back. They wanted to tow it out into the ocean and just sink the whole thing.
When that plan fell through, they thought up a different one.
The only thing I haven't figured out yet is this: Did Topher stumble on this pattern by accident? Or is he one of them? Or is everybody at The Friday Challenge one of them?
Am I one of them?
- - - - - - - - - - - -
** Wikipedia
- - - - - - - - - - - -
At the time the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I was driving to work. The radio was on, but it wasn’t a station that had news, or at least not the what’s-happening-right-this-minute kind of news. I got all the way to my cubicle on the fourth and top floor of the Hornet building and settled in to start work before Tom popped his head over the cubicle wall and told me about it.
Now you have to keep in mind the fact that Tom always popped his head over the cubicle wall and said something strange. Often he just woofed at me (he has Saint Bernards, and yes that is plural) and disappeared. I think this might have been his way of saying it was a good day and he was feeling great. He always got me laughing, and he is a good programmer, which is sometimes a rarity.
By the time Tom told me about the first plane, there were already rumors about a helicopter crashing at the pentagon. At least they knew there was a lot of black smoke there. So it never really seemed to me like it could have been an accident. There was a debate going on amongst the fourth floor occupants about it, but that ended shortly when the second plane crashed into the other tower. After that, nobody did much work. Radios were on all over the building.
The Hornet building, named after the street it is on, is the counterpart of the building ~brb was in that day. It is about a mile from the end of a main runway at Lambert. The usual wind direction made it a main runway for planes taking off. Depending what direction they were aiming for, they would often go right over us. If you happened to be looking at the windows, you would see the plane’s shadow block the sunlight for half a second. Larger planes made the building shake. Being on the top floor made it louder. Sometimes in a meeting or on the phone we would have to wait for the noise to die down before continuing. I had been there for a few months, but I still noticed when the building shook.
When the planes stopped, all the radios became noticeable. And every morning for weeks after that, I noticed the fighter jets taking off. It was the same time every day, and there were always four of them, about a minute apart. No matter how deep my brain was into a program, it came back up at the sound of that first jet, counted four of them, and only then would it be able to return to the task at hand.
And boy, do I remember the day a couple weeks later that plane near Chicago failed to identify itself! I swear there were at least a dozen fighters streaking off to Chicago. It was obvious something was happening, but none of the radios or web sites had any information. I didn’t hear what it was until that evening. Didn’t get much done that day, either.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
As for making sense of it, I just now figured it out. I know, I know, I'm really gullible and naïve.
Hey, there are two dots over that “i.” When did that start happening? The computer knows what word I'm using the “i” in, and puts one or two dots accordingly? But … those two dots are German, aren't they? And naïve is a French word, isn't it? Blastit.
Being here at The Friday Challenge has opened my eyes to a lot of things. Not just books I never heard of, but new ideas to argue about, and gobs of conspiracy theories. But they are hidden very well, and if it hadn't been for the new view on life that I picked up in Nashville this summer, I probably wouldn't have noticed a thing.
The tip-off was Topher's tale of Pompeii's last summer. I searched for disasters in 1883 (and found Krakatoa), and there were loads of them. I never knew about most of them. And it wasn't just 1883. There were disasters every year that wiped out whole villages or families. I began to notice the islands. They seemed to have an affinity for wiping out whole islands, or at least getting rid of all the people on them. There was that island off the eastern seaboard in the sixteenth century. All the people just disappeared.
Manhattan is an island.
I believe their original plan was to convince New Yorkers that Manhattan was sinking, and to fix it they needed to saw off the island, tow it out a ways, turn it around, and push it back.** The only problem was that Long Island was in the way. Of course, what they didn't tell the New Yorkers was that they had no intention of pushing the island back. They wanted to tow it out into the ocean and just sink the whole thing.
When that plan fell through, they thought up a different one.
The only thing I haven't figured out yet is this: Did Topher stumble on this pattern by accident? Or is he one of them? Or is everybody at The Friday Challenge one of them?
Am I one of them?
- - - - - - - - - - - -
** Wikipedia
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Thursday, September 10, 2009
What I did on my summer vacation
The Friday Challenge for 9/4/09 is to write an essay about what you would like to have done on your summer vacation.
This summer, my vacation was very restful and refreshing. I needed that badly after the long, intense project at work. I think the Doctor needed the rest, too, judging by a couple of offhanded comments he made.
We went to some very novel places, but all of them had one thing in common: there were no demands on us. There was nothing on a to-do list, no cooking or cleaning, and most importantly, no stress. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, or make friends with the local creatures. There were a few more exciting moments here and there, like our visit to Trenco, but I never felt in danger. The Doctor has many talents, and he always made sure we were safe.
Our first stop was Zabriska. I had always wanted to see a fontema in person, and I was especially curious about their water needs. The descriptions of Zabriska never included any water. No rivers, lakes, ponds, rain, or even dew. But I found it hard to believe that a creature could exist without water of any kind. I was also curious about Zabriska’s sun. Since it provided all the nourishment a fontema needed, would it be beneficial to a human, or harmful?
We touched down halfway between the equator and a pole, and the Doctor ran his tests on the sunlight. After several minutes, he decided it would not be harmful to either of us, but it wouldn’t be beneficial, either. It was simply very different. We didn’t have the receptors the fontemas had, so we had no way of receiving any energy or nourishment from it.
We opened the door and stepped out onto the dry, sandy surface of Zabriska, and started looking for a fontema. We had brought along our own shade in case we had to wait a while, so we set up the umbrella and lounge chairs and had a picnic. This gave us the chance to experiment a little with water.
We found that a drop of water spilled on the ground would evaporate very quickly, but it seemed to form a tiny thin cloud just above the ground. There was no wind, so the cloud didn’t move. This caused the Doctor to go hunting for more testing equipment so he could test the air. He found the air was full of evaporated water, enough so there wasn’t any more room for the drop we had spilled. It stayed partly condensed in the air rather than completely evaporating.
We were both scratching our heads over that one, but the Doctor couldn’t rest until he figured out how it worked, so he kept poking around with various machines, talking to himself and making vigorous hand gestures. I think he did figure it out, but I didn’t understand much of his explanation. I caught the fact that the ground was hotter than the air, and that made more water able to evaporate on the ground than in the air. He also launched into some theories about fontema skin really being their stomach, which could absorb water from the air and transform sunlight into energy. It was interesting, but too much work for my brain on vacation.
While he was working on the water question, I got out my book to read. I was about halfway through Havah, which was the perfect book to read on vacation. It was very soothing and full of exquisite beauty. I kept checking the stretch of dirt in front of me for any sign of a fontema, and finally I saw a slight movement off in the distance. I picked up the binoculars and tried a closer look. It was definitely a moving creature, coming right toward us.
We had an interesting time playing with the fontema, which completely ignored us no matter what we did. It acted exactly like all the descriptions of it, falling asleep instantly when we shaded it from the sun. I felt much more appreciative of the expression “less brains than a Zabriskan fontema.”
As we were just about to pack up and leave, we spotted another one coming toward us, and we turned around the one we had been playing with to head toward it. We got to see first hand the reproductive process of fontemas, which was about as exciting as that of amoebas. They met, merged, and divided into four fontemas, who immediately moved off in the four different directions.
From Zabriska we went to Trenco. We had a big advantage in our method of travel, because we didn’t have to face the winds or the chaotic perception changes. We could put down inside the shelter instead of having to time our landing during the time of the least wind, then spend a very short time doing whatever we had come for and take off before the winds became too strong.
I spent most of my time there staring out through the thick plexiglass, or whatever it was, watching the plants grow. I thought the “tree weeds” in my yard grew fast, 15 feet in a couple of months, but this was unbelievable. These plants lived for one day, because they couldn’t withstand the violent wind and storms during the night. Each morning seeds sprouted, the huge leaves grew in a few hours, more seeds were produced and deposited into the mud, swirled away to another part of the planet during the night while the leaves were ripped up and shredded by the wind, and everything started over the next day.
All I could think was thionite must be some terrific drug to make people risk their lives to gather the leaves to make it.
Our last stop was Arisia. We contacted the authority to get permission to come, and Mentor met us as we walked in the garden. Actually, we had gotten separated by that time, so Mentor met each of us. To me she appeared as a beautiful and very wise woman, dressed in flowing magenta and gold robes. Even though I knew she was really not a single entity, but a four-way Arisian mind meld, it was hard to think of her like that.
I’m not sure how long we were there, but it was completely refreshing to me. I basked in Mentor’s presence as in the sun, and my spirit relaxed and stretched like a sleepy cat. We talked about deep things, both dark and joyous, and I felt my soul growing in wisdom and understanding.
As in all good vacations, I regretted having to come back home. I would especially miss the suite of rooms the Doctor had created for me. They had everything I could have wanted in a house. I would love to spend more time there.
As I opened the door and stepped out into my own yard, I turned back to look at the Doctor. “Will you come and pick me up next year for my vacation?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It will be in August, and we will be going to the sci-fi conference near Henry’s house. We can stop and pick up anybody else that needs transportation – Minnesota for Bruce, Nashville for Vidad, Texas for the Bandit, Colorado Springs for Rain and Waterboy, New Jersey for Snowdog, and even Italy for Vox. There are plenty of rooms for anybody that wants to sleep here, and the Tardis will fit in Henry’s back yard. Just tell everyone to let me know.”
This summer, my vacation was very restful and refreshing. I needed that badly after the long, intense project at work. I think the Doctor needed the rest, too, judging by a couple of offhanded comments he made.
We went to some very novel places, but all of them had one thing in common: there were no demands on us. There was nothing on a to-do list, no cooking or cleaning, and most importantly, no stress. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, or make friends with the local creatures. There were a few more exciting moments here and there, like our visit to Trenco, but I never felt in danger. The Doctor has many talents, and he always made sure we were safe.
Our first stop was Zabriska. I had always wanted to see a fontema in person, and I was especially curious about their water needs. The descriptions of Zabriska never included any water. No rivers, lakes, ponds, rain, or even dew. But I found it hard to believe that a creature could exist without water of any kind. I was also curious about Zabriska’s sun. Since it provided all the nourishment a fontema needed, would it be beneficial to a human, or harmful?
We touched down halfway between the equator and a pole, and the Doctor ran his tests on the sunlight. After several minutes, he decided it would not be harmful to either of us, but it wouldn’t be beneficial, either. It was simply very different. We didn’t have the receptors the fontemas had, so we had no way of receiving any energy or nourishment from it.
We opened the door and stepped out onto the dry, sandy surface of Zabriska, and started looking for a fontema. We had brought along our own shade in case we had to wait a while, so we set up the umbrella and lounge chairs and had a picnic. This gave us the chance to experiment a little with water.
We found that a drop of water spilled on the ground would evaporate very quickly, but it seemed to form a tiny thin cloud just above the ground. There was no wind, so the cloud didn’t move. This caused the Doctor to go hunting for more testing equipment so he could test the air. He found the air was full of evaporated water, enough so there wasn’t any more room for the drop we had spilled. It stayed partly condensed in the air rather than completely evaporating.
We were both scratching our heads over that one, but the Doctor couldn’t rest until he figured out how it worked, so he kept poking around with various machines, talking to himself and making vigorous hand gestures. I think he did figure it out, but I didn’t understand much of his explanation. I caught the fact that the ground was hotter than the air, and that made more water able to evaporate on the ground than in the air. He also launched into some theories about fontema skin really being their stomach, which could absorb water from the air and transform sunlight into energy. It was interesting, but too much work for my brain on vacation.
While he was working on the water question, I got out my book to read. I was about halfway through Havah, which was the perfect book to read on vacation. It was very soothing and full of exquisite beauty. I kept checking the stretch of dirt in front of me for any sign of a fontema, and finally I saw a slight movement off in the distance. I picked up the binoculars and tried a closer look. It was definitely a moving creature, coming right toward us.
We had an interesting time playing with the fontema, which completely ignored us no matter what we did. It acted exactly like all the descriptions of it, falling asleep instantly when we shaded it from the sun. I felt much more appreciative of the expression “less brains than a Zabriskan fontema.”
As we were just about to pack up and leave, we spotted another one coming toward us, and we turned around the one we had been playing with to head toward it. We got to see first hand the reproductive process of fontemas, which was about as exciting as that of amoebas. They met, merged, and divided into four fontemas, who immediately moved off in the four different directions.
From Zabriska we went to Trenco. We had a big advantage in our method of travel, because we didn’t have to face the winds or the chaotic perception changes. We could put down inside the shelter instead of having to time our landing during the time of the least wind, then spend a very short time doing whatever we had come for and take off before the winds became too strong.
I spent most of my time there staring out through the thick plexiglass, or whatever it was, watching the plants grow. I thought the “tree weeds” in my yard grew fast, 15 feet in a couple of months, but this was unbelievable. These plants lived for one day, because they couldn’t withstand the violent wind and storms during the night. Each morning seeds sprouted, the huge leaves grew in a few hours, more seeds were produced and deposited into the mud, swirled away to another part of the planet during the night while the leaves were ripped up and shredded by the wind, and everything started over the next day.
All I could think was thionite must be some terrific drug to make people risk their lives to gather the leaves to make it.
Our last stop was Arisia. We contacted the authority to get permission to come, and Mentor met us as we walked in the garden. Actually, we had gotten separated by that time, so Mentor met each of us. To me she appeared as a beautiful and very wise woman, dressed in flowing magenta and gold robes. Even though I knew she was really not a single entity, but a four-way Arisian mind meld, it was hard to think of her like that.
I’m not sure how long we were there, but it was completely refreshing to me. I basked in Mentor’s presence as in the sun, and my spirit relaxed and stretched like a sleepy cat. We talked about deep things, both dark and joyous, and I felt my soul growing in wisdom and understanding.
As in all good vacations, I regretted having to come back home. I would especially miss the suite of rooms the Doctor had created for me. They had everything I could have wanted in a house. I would love to spend more time there.
As I opened the door and stepped out into my own yard, I turned back to look at the Doctor. “Will you come and pick me up next year for my vacation?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It will be in August, and we will be going to the sci-fi conference near Henry’s house. We can stop and pick up anybody else that needs transportation – Minnesota for Bruce, Nashville for Vidad, Texas for the Bandit, Colorado Springs for Rain and Waterboy, New Jersey for Snowdog, and even Italy for Vox. There are plenty of rooms for anybody that wants to sleep here, and the Tardis will fit in Henry’s back yard. Just tell everyone to let me know.”
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Southern Knights: The Movie
This is a last minute entry for the 8/28/09 Friday Challenge, write a scenario for a movie of the Southern Knights comic book series.
Dragon has changed into his human guise, Mark Dagon, in order to go shopping for party supplies for the Southern Knights celebration that night. They are celebrating getting out of Atlanta. Their new location will be Hookworm, Mississippi, and they are planning to leave the next day.
While he is in the 7-11, a crazy but beautiful (in a slutty way) woman comes in with a big gun, looking for her ex-boyfriend. She sees Mark and thinks he's the boyfriend and shoots him three times in the back. When he falls down, she sees he's not the boyfriend, and she drags his unconscious body out to her car and drives him back to her dumpy, run-down shack out in the rural outskirts of Atlanta.
He is not quite dead, and she nurses him for a month until he regains consciousness. He has amnesia and doesn't remember he is really a dragon. She has fallen in love with him while he was unconscious, and he becomes her current boyfriend. She convinces him he used to help her rob convenience stores, and they eventually go out to rob one.
Meanwhile back at the ... lair of the Southern Knights, when Dragon never shows up, they go looking for him, but can't find him. They decide he has left the gang because he didn't really want to leave Atlanta, so they go on to Hookworm without him. But about six months later, they see security camera pictures of him robbing a 7-11 in Atlanta with his girlfriend ("Do you know either of these people? Call this number to tip off the police."), and they recognize him and go back to Atlanta to rescue him from this life of crime.
The ex-boyfriend also sees the pics and recognizes the ex-girlfriend, and he knows where to find her. So he goes to her shanty to try to rescue her from this life of crime. He is not the horrible monster you might have thought, but rather just a bumbling idiot. (Perfect part for Larry the cable guy.)
When Larry arrives at the shack, he manages to make Mark really mad, and he changes into Dragon unexpectedly. Dragon is horrified and thinks he has become a monster, and he goes off to find a bridge to jump from. Unfortunately, he can fly, so he isn't hurt by jumping.
At that moment, the Southern Knights show up and explain to him who he is and what he does. They want him to come back home to Hookworm, Mississippi, but he doesn't believe them, and flies off into the sunset.
The remainder of the Southern Knights become very depressed and stop saving people, and Kristin especially begins to act out. She starts dressing in Daisy Dukes and wet t-shirts, and hangs out in bars trying to pick up men by dancing in irresistably sexy ways. When Larry arrives in the bar, they hook up and live unhappily ever after.
The End
Dragon has changed into his human guise, Mark Dagon, in order to go shopping for party supplies for the Southern Knights celebration that night. They are celebrating getting out of Atlanta. Their new location will be Hookworm, Mississippi, and they are planning to leave the next day.
While he is in the 7-11, a crazy but beautiful (in a slutty way) woman comes in with a big gun, looking for her ex-boyfriend. She sees Mark and thinks he's the boyfriend and shoots him three times in the back. When he falls down, she sees he's not the boyfriend, and she drags his unconscious body out to her car and drives him back to her dumpy, run-down shack out in the rural outskirts of Atlanta.
He is not quite dead, and she nurses him for a month until he regains consciousness. He has amnesia and doesn't remember he is really a dragon. She has fallen in love with him while he was unconscious, and he becomes her current boyfriend. She convinces him he used to help her rob convenience stores, and they eventually go out to rob one.
Meanwhile back at the ... lair of the Southern Knights, when Dragon never shows up, they go looking for him, but can't find him. They decide he has left the gang because he didn't really want to leave Atlanta, so they go on to Hookworm without him. But about six months later, they see security camera pictures of him robbing a 7-11 in Atlanta with his girlfriend ("Do you know either of these people? Call this number to tip off the police."), and they recognize him and go back to Atlanta to rescue him from this life of crime.
The ex-boyfriend also sees the pics and recognizes the ex-girlfriend, and he knows where to find her. So he goes to her shanty to try to rescue her from this life of crime. He is not the horrible monster you might have thought, but rather just a bumbling idiot. (Perfect part for Larry the cable guy.)
When Larry arrives at the shack, he manages to make Mark really mad, and he changes into Dragon unexpectedly. Dragon is horrified and thinks he has become a monster, and he goes off to find a bridge to jump from. Unfortunately, he can fly, so he isn't hurt by jumping.
At that moment, the Southern Knights show up and explain to him who he is and what he does. They want him to come back home to Hookworm, Mississippi, but he doesn't believe them, and flies off into the sunset.
The remainder of the Southern Knights become very depressed and stop saving people, and Kristin especially begins to act out. She starts dressing in Daisy Dukes and wet t-shirts, and hangs out in bars trying to pick up men by dancing in irresistably sexy ways. When Larry arrives in the bar, they hook up and live unhappily ever after.
The End
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
This is for the Friday Challenge known as The Second Annual Ultimate Snowdogging Competition!
I'm not quite sure when it's due. Could be 8/13/09 or 8/6/09 or maybe a year ago, but that doesn't really matter, since it's a Snowdogging competition, and all entries are expected to be late. Snowdog invented and perfected the late entry for Friday Challenges.
I'm picking a challenge from last year, before I stumbled across the Ranting Room. It's to write about your favorite or most hated appliance and what it will be like in twenty years.
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
There was no two ways about it: the coffee maker was broken, beyond any fixing. Martha had determined by careful examination, with glasses on, that it was a split piece of plastic tube that was causing the water to leak back in to the water container during the brewing process. It couldn't be taped or glued, because it was split in several places, and she couldn't get in there to apply tape or glue to every spot, even with the tiny pliers she had in the drawer. She couldn't take the tube out to fix it, because it was all one piece with the body of the coffee maker. It was hopeless.
It would only get worse as the cracks widened and multiplied. It already took five times as long as usual to get half a pot of brewed coffee, and impossible to get a whole pot. The water just kept going around and around until it boiled away.
Martha turned away from the coffee maker and as her eyes swept over the refrigerator, her shoulders slumped in complete despair. The refrigerator had been broken for over a year. The thermostat had gotten farther and farther off, until the only place she could keep milk without it going bad was in the freezer compartment, which no longer froze anything.
And the oven wouldn't heat at all, and only one burner on the top would still light. The microwave had quit working two or three years ago, but that wasn't a necessity. She still had the toaster oven, but only one of its elements heated now.
She was trapped. There was no escape. Soon her last working cooking appliances would break, and she would have to give in and buy a foodbot. I might as well just shoot myself and get it over with, she thought.
All of Martha's friends and relatives were now using foodbots. One by one, they had converted over, some eager for the easier lifestyle, some resisting as long as possible. But all of them got sick. She could see it, but they evidently could not. She kept on repairing and stealing parts from one appliance to fix another. As time went by, it became more and more impossible to get new appliances or to have the old ones fixed. There were no more parts and no more repair people. Not since the Food Processing Act in 2016.
The FDA had collapsed under its own corruption fifteen years ago, and after that, all the damaging evidence about plastic, Teflon, and aluminum cookware and food containers had come out, splashing fear into voters everywhere. Laws were passed in record time, making it a federal offense to allow food to come into contact with plastic, Teflon, or aluminum under any conditions in public places or manufacturing companies.
Martha vividly remembered the chaos of 2015. That was when she had started hoarding appliances. She had been able to get hold of several small appliances at garage sales. Since individuals were not included in the new laws, she could buy them, and their owners were eager to sell them, but that didn't last long.
More research was done that year than ever before. It took only a few weeks for new products to appear, one of which was the foodbot. It started out as a replacement for fast food restaurants, which had all closed. Then the personal foodbot appeared. All houses being sold were required to have a foodbot, thanks to the Food Processing Act.
Foodbots were made of human-friendly materials: glass, some ceramics, and specially treated iron or steel. They were like a combination of all the old appliances. You put food in, it was stored at its optimum temperature until you requested it to be prepared for eating, whereupon the foodbot would wash it, cut it, cook it, or whatever was appropriate, and then serve it up in human-friendly dishes. When you finished eating, you would put the remains into a different part of the foodbot, and it would clean the dishes and dispose of the food scraps.
Reluctantly, Martha put on her coat. She would need to go pick out her new foodbot, and on the way she would stop at MacBot for coffee. Their coffee wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't think about what might be in it.
The salesman at the foodbot showroom met her as she walked through the door, which made her nervous. She always preferred to browse by herself until she had her mind made up. But he was very nice and never made her feel captive to his persuasions.
There wasn't a lot of decision making required when buying a foodbot. Of course they tried to make it fit in with your kitchen style and color scheme, but by the time you take out the refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher, and half of the cabinets, you're pretty much starting over, anyway. She picked out a cream color with Indian style trim in turquoise, pick, and orange.
“What persona would you like,” asked the salesman. “We have man, woman, boy, or girl, of course, but we also can copy your voice and personality.”
At Martha's look of surprise and interest, he continued enthusiastically. “That's brand new last month. I've installed twenty of them so far, and all twenty customers like them much better than their old ones. They say their bot understands them and knows how to fix things the way they like.”
That was too appealing to pass up, so Martha found herself answering many questions and reading some printed material out loud in a soundbooth, where her voice and personality were recorded for programming into her new bot.
After several hours, everything was set up for the installation and personal training session by her salesman, who was apparently much more than just a salesman. She only had to wait four days. She walked out, headed to TacoBot for a late lunch.
Installing a foodbot was an all-day event. First the old appliances were removed, and cabinets were rearranged or removed, then the bot was brought in and assembled. It was too big to fit through the door in one piece. The training session was last on the agenda, serving a dual purpose as a way of testing that the bot was running correctly.
Martha was amazed at the mass of details the bot had to think about. Well, if the bot thought. It was an AI computer, of course. It would track everything she put into it and let her know if something was getting close to its expiration date. It knew how much of each ingredient to use to make one serving, and it could adjust that if she said she was extra hungry or not very hungry. It would track how much and what foods she ate, and make suggestions for optimum health. It could detect spoiled food and would dispose of it. It would help her plan ahead and provide shopping lists. It would even know if it had a broken part or was not running correctly, and it would tell her.
“What's her name?” the salesman asked.
“Oh,” replied Martha. “It's Betty.” Not bottie, or batty, but close, she thought, secretly smirking while the salesman programmed in Betty's name.
“Okay, you say her name and then give her instructions. When she hears her name, she will know the instructions are for her.”
After everyone was gone, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at Betty. She needed to try something. “Betty, make a cup of coffee, the French roast.”
Her own voice said, “The coffee will be ready in two point six minutes.”
Martha heard a grinding noise, then something that sounded for all the world like percolating. It wasn't exactly the same as her old coffee maker, which she had hidden under her bed to keep it from being confiscated by the installers. At the end of the percolating, her coffee maker always opened its lid slightly, and she had to punch it down. She saw a mental picture of herself pounding her fist on Betty and giggled.
“The coffee is ready,” said Betty, ignoring the giggle. A door opened at one end of the bot, disclosing a cream colored cup with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange.
Martha moved over to get the cup, and saw the coffee was black. “Oh. Betty, put cream in the coffee.”
This would be the acid test. The cream that Martha had transferred from the old refrigerator was raw cream, organic, unpasteurized, unhomogenized, with no contaminants of any kind. It was so thick the bot wouldn't be able to pour it. It was solid. She picked it up once a week from Tim, a dairy farmer forty miles out of town.
The door closed. There were a few faint clicks and a humming noise. Then the door opened again and Betty said, “One serving of cream is in the coffee. It was not pasteurized or homogenized. That has been corrected. The coffee is ready. All caffeine has been removed.”
Martha frowned, or rather, glared at the foodbot. “Betty, how much cream is one serving?”
“One serving of cream is one half teaspoon,” was the reply. “The cream was diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
“Betty, put more cream in the coffee. I want ten servings of cream. Do not dilute it!”
“Ten servings of cream is not healthy,” Betty responded.
Martha picked up the cup of coffee and tasted it. The door closed. “This is awful!” Actually, the coffee tasted quite a bit like the MacBot coffee she had been living on for the past several days. It wasn't that bad.
“This is awful!” Martha repeated. “I want you to make another cup of coffee, and I want you to leave the caffeine in it, and I want you to leave my cream unpasteurized and unhomogenized and undiluted, and I want at least a tablespoon of it in my coffee!”
Silence.
I guess I should have named her Simon Says, thought Martha.
“Betty, make another cup of coffee with the French roast. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.”
A piece of paper slid out of a slot next to the door. Betty said, “A shopping list has been printed. You need coffee and cream. All the caffeine has been removed. All the cream has been pasteurized. All the cream has been homogenized. All the cream has been diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
Martha's mouth opened. She blinked.
“Betty, I want to plan tomorrow's meals. Today I will get the things on the shopping list: coffee with caffeine in it and unpasteurized, unhomogenized, undiluted cream. Tomorrow morning I want you to make a cup of coffee. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.” Martha pounded her fist on the foodbot's top surface.
More faint clicks and humming exuded from the foodbot. After what seemed like a very long time, there was a loud clunk, and then silence.
“Betty, print the meal plan for tomorrow morning.”
“The meal planning module is not able to plan tomorrow morning's meal.”
“Betty, why can't the meal planning module plan tomorrow morning's meal?”
“The meal planning module is unable to find coffee with caffeine and cream that is not pasteurized, homogenized, and diluted. The shopping list adjusts the quantity of coffee and cream, but when the cup of coffee is made tomorrow morning, the caffeine will be removed and the cream will be pasteurized and homogenized and diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency and one half teaspoon of cream will be put in the coffee. Six servings of cream is not healthy.”
“Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty!' groaned Martha, burying her face in her hands. “Just shoot me now and get it over with!”
After several more faint clicks, another door opened in the foodbot, near the floor. A cream colored gun with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange protruded. And fired.
I'm not quite sure when it's due. Could be 8/13/09 or 8/6/09 or maybe a year ago, but that doesn't really matter, since it's a Snowdogging competition, and all entries are expected to be late. Snowdog invented and perfected the late entry for Friday Challenges.
I'm picking a challenge from last year, before I stumbled across the Ranting Room. It's to write about your favorite or most hated appliance and what it will be like in twenty years.
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
There was no two ways about it: the coffee maker was broken, beyond any fixing. Martha had determined by careful examination, with glasses on, that it was a split piece of plastic tube that was causing the water to leak back in to the water container during the brewing process. It couldn't be taped or glued, because it was split in several places, and she couldn't get in there to apply tape or glue to every spot, even with the tiny pliers she had in the drawer. She couldn't take the tube out to fix it, because it was all one piece with the body of the coffee maker. It was hopeless.
It would only get worse as the cracks widened and multiplied. It already took five times as long as usual to get half a pot of brewed coffee, and impossible to get a whole pot. The water just kept going around and around until it boiled away.
Martha turned away from the coffee maker and as her eyes swept over the refrigerator, her shoulders slumped in complete despair. The refrigerator had been broken for over a year. The thermostat had gotten farther and farther off, until the only place she could keep milk without it going bad was in the freezer compartment, which no longer froze anything.
And the oven wouldn't heat at all, and only one burner on the top would still light. The microwave had quit working two or three years ago, but that wasn't a necessity. She still had the toaster oven, but only one of its elements heated now.
She was trapped. There was no escape. Soon her last working cooking appliances would break, and she would have to give in and buy a foodbot. I might as well just shoot myself and get it over with, she thought.
All of Martha's friends and relatives were now using foodbots. One by one, they had converted over, some eager for the easier lifestyle, some resisting as long as possible. But all of them got sick. She could see it, but they evidently could not. She kept on repairing and stealing parts from one appliance to fix another. As time went by, it became more and more impossible to get new appliances or to have the old ones fixed. There were no more parts and no more repair people. Not since the Food Processing Act in 2016.
The FDA had collapsed under its own corruption fifteen years ago, and after that, all the damaging evidence about plastic, Teflon, and aluminum cookware and food containers had come out, splashing fear into voters everywhere. Laws were passed in record time, making it a federal offense to allow food to come into contact with plastic, Teflon, or aluminum under any conditions in public places or manufacturing companies.
Martha vividly remembered the chaos of 2015. That was when she had started hoarding appliances. She had been able to get hold of several small appliances at garage sales. Since individuals were not included in the new laws, she could buy them, and their owners were eager to sell them, but that didn't last long.
More research was done that year than ever before. It took only a few weeks for new products to appear, one of which was the foodbot. It started out as a replacement for fast food restaurants, which had all closed. Then the personal foodbot appeared. All houses being sold were required to have a foodbot, thanks to the Food Processing Act.
Foodbots were made of human-friendly materials: glass, some ceramics, and specially treated iron or steel. They were like a combination of all the old appliances. You put food in, it was stored at its optimum temperature until you requested it to be prepared for eating, whereupon the foodbot would wash it, cut it, cook it, or whatever was appropriate, and then serve it up in human-friendly dishes. When you finished eating, you would put the remains into a different part of the foodbot, and it would clean the dishes and dispose of the food scraps.
Reluctantly, Martha put on her coat. She would need to go pick out her new foodbot, and on the way she would stop at MacBot for coffee. Their coffee wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't think about what might be in it.
The salesman at the foodbot showroom met her as she walked through the door, which made her nervous. She always preferred to browse by herself until she had her mind made up. But he was very nice and never made her feel captive to his persuasions.
There wasn't a lot of decision making required when buying a foodbot. Of course they tried to make it fit in with your kitchen style and color scheme, but by the time you take out the refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher, and half of the cabinets, you're pretty much starting over, anyway. She picked out a cream color with Indian style trim in turquoise, pick, and orange.
“What persona would you like,” asked the salesman. “We have man, woman, boy, or girl, of course, but we also can copy your voice and personality.”
At Martha's look of surprise and interest, he continued enthusiastically. “That's brand new last month. I've installed twenty of them so far, and all twenty customers like them much better than their old ones. They say their bot understands them and knows how to fix things the way they like.”
That was too appealing to pass up, so Martha found herself answering many questions and reading some printed material out loud in a soundbooth, where her voice and personality were recorded for programming into her new bot.
After several hours, everything was set up for the installation and personal training session by her salesman, who was apparently much more than just a salesman. She only had to wait four days. She walked out, headed to TacoBot for a late lunch.
Installing a foodbot was an all-day event. First the old appliances were removed, and cabinets were rearranged or removed, then the bot was brought in and assembled. It was too big to fit through the door in one piece. The training session was last on the agenda, serving a dual purpose as a way of testing that the bot was running correctly.
Martha was amazed at the mass of details the bot had to think about. Well, if the bot thought. It was an AI computer, of course. It would track everything she put into it and let her know if something was getting close to its expiration date. It knew how much of each ingredient to use to make one serving, and it could adjust that if she said she was extra hungry or not very hungry. It would track how much and what foods she ate, and make suggestions for optimum health. It could detect spoiled food and would dispose of it. It would help her plan ahead and provide shopping lists. It would even know if it had a broken part or was not running correctly, and it would tell her.
“What's her name?” the salesman asked.
“Oh,” replied Martha. “It's Betty.” Not bottie, or batty, but close, she thought, secretly smirking while the salesman programmed in Betty's name.
“Okay, you say her name and then give her instructions. When she hears her name, she will know the instructions are for her.”
After everyone was gone, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at Betty. She needed to try something. “Betty, make a cup of coffee, the French roast.”
Her own voice said, “The coffee will be ready in two point six minutes.”
Martha heard a grinding noise, then something that sounded for all the world like percolating. It wasn't exactly the same as her old coffee maker, which she had hidden under her bed to keep it from being confiscated by the installers. At the end of the percolating, her coffee maker always opened its lid slightly, and she had to punch it down. She saw a mental picture of herself pounding her fist on Betty and giggled.
“The coffee is ready,” said Betty, ignoring the giggle. A door opened at one end of the bot, disclosing a cream colored cup with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange.
Martha moved over to get the cup, and saw the coffee was black. “Oh. Betty, put cream in the coffee.”
This would be the acid test. The cream that Martha had transferred from the old refrigerator was raw cream, organic, unpasteurized, unhomogenized, with no contaminants of any kind. It was so thick the bot wouldn't be able to pour it. It was solid. She picked it up once a week from Tim, a dairy farmer forty miles out of town.
The door closed. There were a few faint clicks and a humming noise. Then the door opened again and Betty said, “One serving of cream is in the coffee. It was not pasteurized or homogenized. That has been corrected. The coffee is ready. All caffeine has been removed.”
Martha frowned, or rather, glared at the foodbot. “Betty, how much cream is one serving?”
“One serving of cream is one half teaspoon,” was the reply. “The cream was diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
“Betty, put more cream in the coffee. I want ten servings of cream. Do not dilute it!”
“Ten servings of cream is not healthy,” Betty responded.
Martha picked up the cup of coffee and tasted it. The door closed. “This is awful!” Actually, the coffee tasted quite a bit like the MacBot coffee she had been living on for the past several days. It wasn't that bad.
“This is awful!” Martha repeated. “I want you to make another cup of coffee, and I want you to leave the caffeine in it, and I want you to leave my cream unpasteurized and unhomogenized and undiluted, and I want at least a tablespoon of it in my coffee!”
Silence.
I guess I should have named her Simon Says, thought Martha.
“Betty, make another cup of coffee with the French roast. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.”
A piece of paper slid out of a slot next to the door. Betty said, “A shopping list has been printed. You need coffee and cream. All the caffeine has been removed. All the cream has been pasteurized. All the cream has been homogenized. All the cream has been diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
Martha's mouth opened. She blinked.
“Betty, I want to plan tomorrow's meals. Today I will get the things on the shopping list: coffee with caffeine in it and unpasteurized, unhomogenized, undiluted cream. Tomorrow morning I want you to make a cup of coffee. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.” Martha pounded her fist on the foodbot's top surface.
More faint clicks and humming exuded from the foodbot. After what seemed like a very long time, there was a loud clunk, and then silence.
“Betty, print the meal plan for tomorrow morning.”
“The meal planning module is not able to plan tomorrow morning's meal.”
“Betty, why can't the meal planning module plan tomorrow morning's meal?”
“The meal planning module is unable to find coffee with caffeine and cream that is not pasteurized, homogenized, and diluted. The shopping list adjusts the quantity of coffee and cream, but when the cup of coffee is made tomorrow morning, the caffeine will be removed and the cream will be pasteurized and homogenized and diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency and one half teaspoon of cream will be put in the coffee. Six servings of cream is not healthy.”
“Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty!' groaned Martha, burying her face in her hands. “Just shoot me now and get it over with!”
After several more faint clicks, another door opened in the foodbot, near the floor. A cream colored gun with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange protruded. And fired.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Supersubstantial
This story is a response to the Friday challenge for 7/10/09. Please forgive my lack of Greek letters, but my computer refuses.
Supersubstantial
For Robert
Martin Luther sat at his desk ostensibly working on his translation of the Lord's Prayer from Greek into German. Even after comparing the various texts available to him, the more times he went over that center phrase, the more frustrated he became. His quill lay unmoving next to the ink bottle.
Surrounding his hunched figure were an astonishing number of unseen demons, and an equally astonishing number of unseen angels were present, waiting expectantly in the background. This was an important moment, and none of them wanted to miss it. It was so important that the Evil One himself had been hovering in the vicinity for days, sending faint thoughts from his mind into Luther's, trying to influence his decision without being noticed. And it was so important that heaven opened a window so all the angelic beings could watch. God Most High watched from his throne with a sad look, for he was the only one who knew what was going to happen.
By contrast, Satan was busy at work, expertly inserting confusion and tiredness into Luther's feelings, adding just a touch of “I really want to do this right.” Steadily he nourished the attitude he had introduced many years earlier, that of viewing the common people as not quite able to understand the deeper, more complicated ideas in Scripture. After all, most of them couldn't read or write. Their lives were full of the mundane tasks of getting enough to eat and a place to live for their families. They had neither the ability nor the desire to study these ancient writings in an unfamiliar language. That was why it was so important to Luther to give these people the scripture in a form they could understand and remember.
Luther's usual routine when he came to a difficult passage was to go back to "How would the people say this?" He had spent many hours walking in the villages, listening to the conversations, wanting to absorb the words, the turns of expression, every nuance of current German language. He didn't want any part of his translation to sound like a monk or priest secluded for years with only other clerics to talk to and dusty, outdated writings to read.
This time that wasn't helping. He couldn't put a phrase into the common tongue when he didn't really know what it meant, himself. It was that one word in the center, "epiousian", that had him stuck. The problem was that no one really knew what it meant. It could not be found in any other Greek text, not just Biblical texts, but any writing whatsoever.
Eleven centuries ago, Jerome had translated it from Greek to Latin, phrasing it “Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie,” or “Our bread supersubstantial give us today.” Luther had even consulted Wycliffe’s translation from Jerome’s Latin to English, but it wasn’t much help. Wycliffe put it “yyue to vs this dai oure breed ouer othir substaunce.”
It seemed obvious to Luther that Jesus was speaking of some bread that was out of the ordinary, perhaps symbolic, or more likely a reference to Jesus’ statement that he was the bread of life, a bread that ended all hunger. But how to translate that into an idea that the common people would understand?
All the spiritual beings grouped around Luther intensified their focus, waiting for this man’s decision upon which so much would hang. Satan no longer sent thoughts into his mind, feeling perhaps that his work was complete. Luther’s head hung over the desk. There was no sign that he heard any tiniest whisper from the Spirit of the Holy One within him. Was he listening for it, or was he distracted and deceived by the swirl of conflicting goals in his heart, planted there and nourished devotedly by the father of lies?
At last he sat up, his decision made. The people would never be able to understand something so esoteric. It would cause them to hesitate, even to stumble in the center of this most important of prayers. He would exchange the difficult phrase for one they would feel comfortable repeating. The prayer asked God for bread this day. Therefore it was daily bread. “Give us this day our daily bread” would remind them how wonderfully God provided for their needs, and how dependent they were on him. Luther nodded once, satisfied at last.
Satan and the other demons danced wildly in celebration of stealing one word from the mouth of God. They didn’t yet know the whole result of their deception. God alone could see hundreds of years into a future where people would demand rather than ask, where they would portray him as Santa Claus, a jolly elf whose function was to give them everything they wanted, where materialism reigned, where food was distorted beyond any recognition and worshipped by its slaves, where almost no one knew God as the provider of a bread that satisfied the heart and the spirit for eternity.
Creation groaned.
Romans 8:22-23 (New American Standard Bible)
22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.
23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body.
Supersubstantial
For Robert
Martin Luther sat at his desk ostensibly working on his translation of the Lord's Prayer from Greek into German. Even after comparing the various texts available to him, the more times he went over that center phrase, the more frustrated he became. His quill lay unmoving next to the ink bottle.
Surrounding his hunched figure were an astonishing number of unseen demons, and an equally astonishing number of unseen angels were present, waiting expectantly in the background. This was an important moment, and none of them wanted to miss it. It was so important that the Evil One himself had been hovering in the vicinity for days, sending faint thoughts from his mind into Luther's, trying to influence his decision without being noticed. And it was so important that heaven opened a window so all the angelic beings could watch. God Most High watched from his throne with a sad look, for he was the only one who knew what was going to happen.
By contrast, Satan was busy at work, expertly inserting confusion and tiredness into Luther's feelings, adding just a touch of “I really want to do this right.” Steadily he nourished the attitude he had introduced many years earlier, that of viewing the common people as not quite able to understand the deeper, more complicated ideas in Scripture. After all, most of them couldn't read or write. Their lives were full of the mundane tasks of getting enough to eat and a place to live for their families. They had neither the ability nor the desire to study these ancient writings in an unfamiliar language. That was why it was so important to Luther to give these people the scripture in a form they could understand and remember.
Luther's usual routine when he came to a difficult passage was to go back to "How would the people say this?" He had spent many hours walking in the villages, listening to the conversations, wanting to absorb the words, the turns of expression, every nuance of current German language. He didn't want any part of his translation to sound like a monk or priest secluded for years with only other clerics to talk to and dusty, outdated writings to read.
This time that wasn't helping. He couldn't put a phrase into the common tongue when he didn't really know what it meant, himself. It was that one word in the center, "epiousian", that had him stuck. The problem was that no one really knew what it meant. It could not be found in any other Greek text, not just Biblical texts, but any writing whatsoever.
Eleven centuries ago, Jerome had translated it from Greek to Latin, phrasing it “Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie,” or “Our bread supersubstantial give us today.” Luther had even consulted Wycliffe’s translation from Jerome’s Latin to English, but it wasn’t much help. Wycliffe put it “yyue to vs this dai oure breed ouer othir substaunce.”
It seemed obvious to Luther that Jesus was speaking of some bread that was out of the ordinary, perhaps symbolic, or more likely a reference to Jesus’ statement that he was the bread of life, a bread that ended all hunger. But how to translate that into an idea that the common people would understand?
All the spiritual beings grouped around Luther intensified their focus, waiting for this man’s decision upon which so much would hang. Satan no longer sent thoughts into his mind, feeling perhaps that his work was complete. Luther’s head hung over the desk. There was no sign that he heard any tiniest whisper from the Spirit of the Holy One within him. Was he listening for it, or was he distracted and deceived by the swirl of conflicting goals in his heart, planted there and nourished devotedly by the father of lies?
At last he sat up, his decision made. The people would never be able to understand something so esoteric. It would cause them to hesitate, even to stumble in the center of this most important of prayers. He would exchange the difficult phrase for one they would feel comfortable repeating. The prayer asked God for bread this day. Therefore it was daily bread. “Give us this day our daily bread” would remind them how wonderfully God provided for their needs, and how dependent they were on him. Luther nodded once, satisfied at last.
Satan and the other demons danced wildly in celebration of stealing one word from the mouth of God. They didn’t yet know the whole result of their deception. God alone could see hundreds of years into a future where people would demand rather than ask, where they would portray him as Santa Claus, a jolly elf whose function was to give them everything they wanted, where materialism reigned, where food was distorted beyond any recognition and worshipped by its slaves, where almost no one knew God as the provider of a bread that satisfied the heart and the spirit for eternity.
Creation groaned.
Romans 8:22-23 (New American Standard Bible)
22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.
23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
MS Open Window
Entry for The Friday Challenge for 6/26/09
MS OPEN WINDOW
"Roberta will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young assistant; "in the meantime you may look over any of the brochures on the side table, or you may try out some of our products on the computer wall."
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the assistant of the moment without unduly discounting the H.R. Director that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nervous breakdown cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
"I know how it will be," his therapist had said when he was preparing to migrate to this new city; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just have your recruiter set you up with a series of interviews with all the companies in the area likely to be hiring at the moment. You should have a job in no time."
"Are you familiar with any of our VR products?" asked the assistant.
"Hardly at all," said Framton. "My sister talked about buying one, but I don't believe she did."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about our company? Have you met Roberta yet?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"No, I have not even talked to her. The only information I have about the company is what I was able to find on line.”
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the assistant.
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this modern, bustling building tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that computer displaying a window with an unmoving, empty scene," said the assistant, indicating the wall-sized screen showing a large French door that opened onto a lawn.
"It looks like a security camera," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Three years ago to a day, Roberta's husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting in beta VR Shoot. They never came back. All the engineers and VR architects searched through the code and the video for weeks, but they never found the virtual hole they fell into." Here the young woman's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor Roberta always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that door just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open around the clock. Poor dear Bertie, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--"
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when Roberta bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Framton.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be back directly from beta testing in the shooting VR, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they'll make a fine mess over the virtual carpets. Or at least they should, if the VR is doing its job."
She rattled on cheerfully about the testing and the scarcity of good VR developers, and the prospects for VR Shoot becoming a best seller. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his interviewer was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window on the computer screen. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have scheduled his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Framton was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the assistant with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The young lady was staring at the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening virtual twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the building, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Framton grabbed wildly at his keys and briefcase; the lobby door, the concrete walk, and the parking lot were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A car turning into the entrance had to run onto the grass to avoid an imminent collision.
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the assistant calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere in VR Vampire by a pack of wild dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
Romance at short notice was her specialty.
MS OPEN WINDOW
"Roberta will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young assistant; "in the meantime you may look over any of the brochures on the side table, or you may try out some of our products on the computer wall."
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the assistant of the moment without unduly discounting the H.R. Director that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nervous breakdown cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
"I know how it will be," his therapist had said when he was preparing to migrate to this new city; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just have your recruiter set you up with a series of interviews with all the companies in the area likely to be hiring at the moment. You should have a job in no time."
"Are you familiar with any of our VR products?" asked the assistant.
"Hardly at all," said Framton. "My sister talked about buying one, but I don't believe she did."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about our company? Have you met Roberta yet?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"No, I have not even talked to her. The only information I have about the company is what I was able to find on line.”
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the assistant.
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this modern, bustling building tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that computer displaying a window with an unmoving, empty scene," said the assistant, indicating the wall-sized screen showing a large French door that opened onto a lawn.
"It looks like a security camera," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Three years ago to a day, Roberta's husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting in beta VR Shoot. They never came back. All the engineers and VR architects searched through the code and the video for weeks, but they never found the virtual hole they fell into." Here the young woman's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor Roberta always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that door just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open around the clock. Poor dear Bertie, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--"
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when Roberta bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Framton.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be back directly from beta testing in the shooting VR, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they'll make a fine mess over the virtual carpets. Or at least they should, if the VR is doing its job."
She rattled on cheerfully about the testing and the scarcity of good VR developers, and the prospects for VR Shoot becoming a best seller. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his interviewer was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window on the computer screen. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have scheduled his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Framton was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the assistant with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The young lady was staring at the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening virtual twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the building, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Framton grabbed wildly at his keys and briefcase; the lobby door, the concrete walk, and the parking lot were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A car turning into the entrance had to run onto the grass to avoid an imminent collision.
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the assistant calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere in VR Vampire by a pack of wild dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
Romance at short notice was her specialty.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Guitar, Chapter 5
Entry for The Friday Challenge, 6/12/09
Jorn couldn't help running on his way to the lodge. It would be his last time to meet with Elcor and play guitars together before leaving for Amber. He knew this past year of music with Elcor had improved his playing immensely, and he would sorely miss it. But of course, Amber would make him even better.
He slowed down as he neared the lodge, being cautious in this time of growing evil. Ambushers were more bold than he could ever remember. He noted the smoke curling up out of the chimney and the dark green scarf draped over the door handle. He was reassured, but still got out his pipe and sounded his personal signal. A few seconds later he heard Elcor's signal coming from inside the lodge, so he stepped up to the door and knocked.
Elcor opened the door and pulled him in, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Jorn suddenly noticed another man sitting at the small table in front of the fire. Elcor introduced him with a proud smile. “This is Justor, my son. He has been at Amber for a year now, and he has volunteered to help you settle in. I'm sure your mother will appreciate a companion for your travels.”
Jorn's grin matched Elcor's, who had only met his mother once, but knew her fears. It had taken him quite a while to persuade her to let Jorn go to Amber. He decided his mother would approve of Justor and be glad he had an elder friend.
“Well, let's get some playing in!” remarked Elcor. He picked up his old guitar while Jorn unslung his from his shoulder. Justor pulled a beautiful, dark red guitar out of the bag at his feet. It had black and white inlaid mosaic trim around the edge. Jorn could hardly keep his eyes off of it while they were running through the first song. Someday he would have a guitar like that! He would be proud to play it for the king. In comparison, his own guitar seemed childish and embarrassing. With a great effort, he brought his mind back to the music. It was really good. Justor played very well, better than Jorn himself, but not better than Elcor.
The time flew by while the three musicians reveled in their artistry. Both of the young men were used to playing with Elcor, and it was easy for them to fit their music together. After a while, Elcor stopped and put his guitar down on the table.
“We should be going to your house, Jorn. It will be supper time soon. But before we do, I have a gift for you.” He opened Justor's bag and pulled out a beautiful, new, dark green guitar with the same black and white mosaic trim, and set it down on the table beside his old, worn one.
“I'm giving you a guitar, and you may choose which of these two you would prefer.” He motioned to the new dark green one and his old one.
“They were made by the same guitar master, both fine instruments, but one has never been played, while the other has been played every day for many years.”
Jorn's mouth had dropped open in surprise when the green guitar had been placed on the table, but now he could only stand still in complete amazement, at a loss to pick one. The green one was so beautiful. He would be proud to have it. But he had admired the old one ever since he had met Elcor and first played with him. He knew its sweet sound well.
All he could say was, “I don't know.”
Elcor chuckled at his confusion. “Perhaps it would help if you tried them both. Play a little bit of your favorite song and see which one suits you best.”
Jorn reached out slowly and picked up the green guitar. He played a few notes. It sounded perfect, and he saw both of the other men were nodding in appreciation. “Yes, that one suits you. You will do well with it. Now try the other one.”
He put the guitar back on the table and picked up the other one. Again he played a few notes, and their heads were nodding. “Yes, that one is good, too. Which one do you want?”
His arm began to move to put the old guitar back on the table, but then he knew he didn't want to let go of it. It was old and worn, not as pretty as the green one, but it could teach him things. And it would be a bit of Elcor to go with him to lights school. He looked up at his friend's face. “You would really give me your guitar? Won't you miss it?”
“Perhaps I will miss it a little, but I'm going to become friends with this new green one.” He picked up the guitar and packed it in his bag.
Jorn hesitated, looking down at the smooth, worn surface of the old guitar. “I don't know if I can do it justice.”
“You will put your heart into it,” replied Elcor, “and that will be a great honor for it. Someday you will play it for the king. I'm sure of it.”
“Yes!” shouted Jorn. He slung the chosen guitar over his shoulder and raised his fist into the air. “I will play for the king!”
Justor looked startled, but Elcor laughed joyously. They chattered and laughed all the way to Jorn's house, and continued the celebration during supper and after, when the three played their new guitars together, and Jorn's parents danced until they were too tired to dance any more.
Jorn couldn't help running on his way to the lodge. It would be his last time to meet with Elcor and play guitars together before leaving for Amber. He knew this past year of music with Elcor had improved his playing immensely, and he would sorely miss it. But of course, Amber would make him even better.
He slowed down as he neared the lodge, being cautious in this time of growing evil. Ambushers were more bold than he could ever remember. He noted the smoke curling up out of the chimney and the dark green scarf draped over the door handle. He was reassured, but still got out his pipe and sounded his personal signal. A few seconds later he heard Elcor's signal coming from inside the lodge, so he stepped up to the door and knocked.
Elcor opened the door and pulled him in, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Jorn suddenly noticed another man sitting at the small table in front of the fire. Elcor introduced him with a proud smile. “This is Justor, my son. He has been at Amber for a year now, and he has volunteered to help you settle in. I'm sure your mother will appreciate a companion for your travels.”
Jorn's grin matched Elcor's, who had only met his mother once, but knew her fears. It had taken him quite a while to persuade her to let Jorn go to Amber. He decided his mother would approve of Justor and be glad he had an elder friend.
“Well, let's get some playing in!” remarked Elcor. He picked up his old guitar while Jorn unslung his from his shoulder. Justor pulled a beautiful, dark red guitar out of the bag at his feet. It had black and white inlaid mosaic trim around the edge. Jorn could hardly keep his eyes off of it while they were running through the first song. Someday he would have a guitar like that! He would be proud to play it for the king. In comparison, his own guitar seemed childish and embarrassing. With a great effort, he brought his mind back to the music. It was really good. Justor played very well, better than Jorn himself, but not better than Elcor.
The time flew by while the three musicians reveled in their artistry. Both of the young men were used to playing with Elcor, and it was easy for them to fit their music together. After a while, Elcor stopped and put his guitar down on the table.
“We should be going to your house, Jorn. It will be supper time soon. But before we do, I have a gift for you.” He opened Justor's bag and pulled out a beautiful, new, dark green guitar with the same black and white mosaic trim, and set it down on the table beside his old, worn one.
“I'm giving you a guitar, and you may choose which of these two you would prefer.” He motioned to the new dark green one and his old one.
“They were made by the same guitar master, both fine instruments, but one has never been played, while the other has been played every day for many years.”
Jorn's mouth had dropped open in surprise when the green guitar had been placed on the table, but now he could only stand still in complete amazement, at a loss to pick one. The green one was so beautiful. He would be proud to have it. But he had admired the old one ever since he had met Elcor and first played with him. He knew its sweet sound well.
All he could say was, “I don't know.”
Elcor chuckled at his confusion. “Perhaps it would help if you tried them both. Play a little bit of your favorite song and see which one suits you best.”
Jorn reached out slowly and picked up the green guitar. He played a few notes. It sounded perfect, and he saw both of the other men were nodding in appreciation. “Yes, that one suits you. You will do well with it. Now try the other one.”
He put the guitar back on the table and picked up the other one. Again he played a few notes, and their heads were nodding. “Yes, that one is good, too. Which one do you want?”
His arm began to move to put the old guitar back on the table, but then he knew he didn't want to let go of it. It was old and worn, not as pretty as the green one, but it could teach him things. And it would be a bit of Elcor to go with him to lights school. He looked up at his friend's face. “You would really give me your guitar? Won't you miss it?”
“Perhaps I will miss it a little, but I'm going to become friends with this new green one.” He picked up the guitar and packed it in his bag.
Jorn hesitated, looking down at the smooth, worn surface of the old guitar. “I don't know if I can do it justice.”
“You will put your heart into it,” replied Elcor, “and that will be a great honor for it. Someday you will play it for the king. I'm sure of it.”
“Yes!” shouted Jorn. He slung the chosen guitar over his shoulder and raised his fist into the air. “I will play for the king!”
Justor looked startled, but Elcor laughed joyously. They chattered and laughed all the way to Jorn's house, and continued the celebration during supper and after, when the three played their new guitars together, and Jorn's parents danced until they were too tired to dance any more.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Alien slave
Cynthia stared at the immense green lawn without really seeing it. Her body was frozen, but her mind was going a mile a minute, running over and over and over the shock of what she had found out.
What was it exactly? There was no proof of anything. Undoubtedly her wonderful husband and her equally fabulous parents would dismiss her conclusions as another of her weird fantasies, giving her that look that said she was not only mentally defective, but just plain bad. Bad through and through, like a rotten tomato. (Have you ever experienced a rotten tomato? They really stink!)
For a minute her conviction wavered and she thought she had really lost it this time. How had she gotten to this conclusion that aliens were taking over earth? But then she went over it again, and it all added up to the same thing. The worst part was that she suspected, no, she was sure that her husband and her parents were in it somehow. They had always seemed like old friends from the first time they met.
"Wow, I'm really getting paranoid these days, finding conspiracies everywhere. And I'm talking to myself, too. Actually, I'd rather be crazy than right about this."
Someday, she thought, her husband would come home from work or wherever and announce that he was an alien, and she could choose to become (become? no, remain) his slave, or to be terminated. Great choice!
And her parents... She had never known what to think about them, but she knew she was on the outside, and she was so different, almost like she was the alien. She had never been good enough for them. They methodically taught her she was an unwanted failure. At least now she knew why. The aliens had been infiltrating earth for many years, sending their messages of worthlessness, making humans ready to be willing slaves. It was almost time for the harvest. Humans had become ripe for the picking, pathetic people pleasers. (Alien pleasers)
There was no reason to live anymore. Hadn't been for quite a while. The same intense longing swept over her that always came when she thought about that. Would she never really be loved, really love another person? Was there any love anywhere to joy in?
A soft breeze touched her face, and a whisper spoke in her mind. "I am here, Beloved Treasure. Come with me and share my joy."
Cynthia's face changed from surprise to delight. She reached up toward this Lover, ready to get out of her chair, but then her arms dropped and she slumped over. Her head rested on the table, her mouth curved in a smile, and her eyes closed peacefully. She stood up and looked down briefly at her body, then took His hand and danced happily out into the air, gliding toward her new home.
What was it exactly? There was no proof of anything. Undoubtedly her wonderful husband and her equally fabulous parents would dismiss her conclusions as another of her weird fantasies, giving her that look that said she was not only mentally defective, but just plain bad. Bad through and through, like a rotten tomato. (Have you ever experienced a rotten tomato? They really stink!)
For a minute her conviction wavered and she thought she had really lost it this time. How had she gotten to this conclusion that aliens were taking over earth? But then she went over it again, and it all added up to the same thing. The worst part was that she suspected, no, she was sure that her husband and her parents were in it somehow. They had always seemed like old friends from the first time they met.
"Wow, I'm really getting paranoid these days, finding conspiracies everywhere. And I'm talking to myself, too. Actually, I'd rather be crazy than right about this."
Someday, she thought, her husband would come home from work or wherever and announce that he was an alien, and she could choose to become (become? no, remain) his slave, or to be terminated. Great choice!
And her parents... She had never known what to think about them, but she knew she was on the outside, and she was so different, almost like she was the alien. She had never been good enough for them. They methodically taught her she was an unwanted failure. At least now she knew why. The aliens had been infiltrating earth for many years, sending their messages of worthlessness, making humans ready to be willing slaves. It was almost time for the harvest. Humans had become ripe for the picking, pathetic people pleasers. (Alien pleasers)
There was no reason to live anymore. Hadn't been for quite a while. The same intense longing swept over her that always came when she thought about that. Would she never really be loved, really love another person? Was there any love anywhere to joy in?
A soft breeze touched her face, and a whisper spoke in her mind. "I am here, Beloved Treasure. Come with me and share my joy."
Cynthia's face changed from surprise to delight. She reached up toward this Lover, ready to get out of her chair, but then her arms dropped and she slumped over. Her head rested on the table, her mouth curved in a smile, and her eyes closed peacefully. She stood up and looked down briefly at her body, then took His hand and danced happily out into the air, gliding toward her new home.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
What happened to February 30th?
This is an entry for the Friday Challenge for May 15, 2009.
It's gone. February 30th, that is. And I'm the one who did it. I had every justification, though. I'll tell you everything that happened, and you'll agree.
There I was, minding my own business... Well, I was also minding a few other peoples' business, but they were my children, I had every right. You see, I had always been afraid that a disaster would come along and destroy me. I worried about it constantly, and that made me watch what I did very carefully. I spent time every day in thought about what I could do to ensure my safety and the safety of my family. I was never foolish, never reckless. I investigated all possible insurance before insurance was even invented. But it didn't do any good. The disaster came anyway.
When I was a child, I was taught many things, and the most important thing was that there is a God, and he created everything, and he rules the earth and controls everything. I figured out that if I wanted to be happy, I had to please God, so he would give me a good life. I became very picky about obeying the rules. If I messed up the slightest bit, I had to make up for it by sacrificing an animal. That was what you did back then when you broke a rule. It would pacify God so he wouldn't punish me by sending a disaster.
Trouble was, I broke the rules so often. Mostly it was little stuff, but I couldn't take any chances. After a while I got into the habit of sacrificing every day, because even if I couldn't remember breaking any rules that day, I knew I wasn't perfect, and I couldn't imagine going through a whole day perfectly. Sometimes I would sacrifice on behalf of my children, in case they forgot. They didn't seem nearly as worried about it as I was.
After several years of sacrificing every day, I stopped worrying so much, because it seemed like it was working. I was happy and successful and rich, I had a big family, and I couldn't think of anything else that would make me any happier. I concluded that God was pleased with me.
That's when the disaster arrived. It was so sudden I couldn't believe it. All my money and investments were stolen, and on the very same day, all my children were at a party, and a tornado ripped through the building and killed them all.
Only my wife remained, and that was truly a mixed blessing, because she screamed questions at me night and day, asking me what horrible thing I had done to displease God so much that he took away her children. She didn't believe my denial of all horribleness. She said she wished God would strike me dead.
I sat alone in the dark and tried to think what I had done to deserve this. I couldn't think of anything. All I knew was that what I had been dreading all my life had finally happened, and everything I had done to prevent it had been useless.
And if that wasn't enough, I woke up with oozing, infected sores all over my body. They were terribly painful, and I couldn't find any position to rest in. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand, and it hurt to lie down. It even hurt to talk. I said nothing for days, while my mind scrambled to find a reason for all this suffering.
I found no answer. I had done nothing.
It was then that I got rid of February 30th. I stood and cursed it aloud, before all my friends who had come to comfort me.
Let the day of my birth be erased, and the night I was conceived.
Let that day be turned to darkness. Let it be lost even to God on high, and let no light shine on it.
Let the darkness and utter gloom claim that day for its own. Let a black cloud overshadow it, and let the darkness terrify it.
Let that night be blotted off the calendar, never to be counted among the days of the year, never again to appear among the months.
Let that night be childless. Let it have no joy.
Let those who are experts at cursing--whose cursing could rouse Leviathan--curse that day.
Let its morning stars remain dark. Let it hope for light, but in vain; may it never see the morning light.
Curse that day for failing to shut my mother's womb, for letting me be born to see all this trouble.*
Of course, you know that's not the end of my story, but it was the end of February 30th, my birthday.
* Job 3:3-10 NLT
Card:
It's gone. February 30th, that is. And I'm the one who did it. I had every justification, though. I'll tell you everything that happened, and you'll agree.
There I was, minding my own business... Well, I was also minding a few other peoples' business, but they were my children, I had every right. You see, I had always been afraid that a disaster would come along and destroy me. I worried about it constantly, and that made me watch what I did very carefully. I spent time every day in thought about what I could do to ensure my safety and the safety of my family. I was never foolish, never reckless. I investigated all possible insurance before insurance was even invented. But it didn't do any good. The disaster came anyway.
When I was a child, I was taught many things, and the most important thing was that there is a God, and he created everything, and he rules the earth and controls everything. I figured out that if I wanted to be happy, I had to please God, so he would give me a good life. I became very picky about obeying the rules. If I messed up the slightest bit, I had to make up for it by sacrificing an animal. That was what you did back then when you broke a rule. It would pacify God so he wouldn't punish me by sending a disaster.
Trouble was, I broke the rules so often. Mostly it was little stuff, but I couldn't take any chances. After a while I got into the habit of sacrificing every day, because even if I couldn't remember breaking any rules that day, I knew I wasn't perfect, and I couldn't imagine going through a whole day perfectly. Sometimes I would sacrifice on behalf of my children, in case they forgot. They didn't seem nearly as worried about it as I was.
After several years of sacrificing every day, I stopped worrying so much, because it seemed like it was working. I was happy and successful and rich, I had a big family, and I couldn't think of anything else that would make me any happier. I concluded that God was pleased with me.
That's when the disaster arrived. It was so sudden I couldn't believe it. All my money and investments were stolen, and on the very same day, all my children were at a party, and a tornado ripped through the building and killed them all.
Only my wife remained, and that was truly a mixed blessing, because she screamed questions at me night and day, asking me what horrible thing I had done to displease God so much that he took away her children. She didn't believe my denial of all horribleness. She said she wished God would strike me dead.
I sat alone in the dark and tried to think what I had done to deserve this. I couldn't think of anything. All I knew was that what I had been dreading all my life had finally happened, and everything I had done to prevent it had been useless.
And if that wasn't enough, I woke up with oozing, infected sores all over my body. They were terribly painful, and I couldn't find any position to rest in. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand, and it hurt to lie down. It even hurt to talk. I said nothing for days, while my mind scrambled to find a reason for all this suffering.
I found no answer. I had done nothing.
It was then that I got rid of February 30th. I stood and cursed it aloud, before all my friends who had come to comfort me.
Let the day of my birth be erased, and the night I was conceived.
Let that day be turned to darkness. Let it be lost even to God on high, and let no light shine on it.
Let the darkness and utter gloom claim that day for its own. Let a black cloud overshadow it, and let the darkness terrify it.
Let that night be blotted off the calendar, never to be counted among the days of the year, never again to appear among the months.
Let that night be childless. Let it have no joy.
Let those who are experts at cursing--whose cursing could rouse Leviathan--curse that day.
Let its morning stars remain dark. Let it hope for light, but in vain; may it never see the morning light.
Curse that day for failing to shut my mother's womb, for letting me be born to see all this trouble.*
Of course, you know that's not the end of my story, but it was the end of February 30th, my birthday.
* Job 3:3-10 NLT
Card:
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tornado at Work
Entry for the Friday Challenge for 4/03/09
Tornado at Work
This coming Monday will be April 13. Weather dot com is predicting rain and thunderstorms. Hopefully there won't be any tornadoes running around this time, since I am expecting a group of ladies to visit my home in the evening. Eleven years ago, that wasn't the case. In fact, I collided with a tornado that time.
I was working as a contract programmer with several part-time clients. I got a call from one of them. Someone was having a problem. I tried to talk her through some stuff over the phone, just to get more information about what she was experiencing, but she was one of those unfortunate computer users who cannot put into words what she is actually seeing on the screen. I remember another person once who kept telling me there was absolutely nothing on her screen. It was completely blank. I finally said, "Read me what your screen says." Then suddenly all kinds of error messages were gushing out of her mouth. Amazing.
Anyway, this user not only couldn't express what she was seeing, but she didn't want to take the time. She just wanted me to come and fix it. I got in my car and drove up there, but I didn't actually get to do any fixing.
The radio in the car was talking about tornadoes. Tornado warnings, tornado watches, and tornado touchdowns about five minutes before I reached my destination, and only a few miles west of where I was.
As I parked next to the back door, the employees were streaming out to go home. It was five o'clock, and they weren't wasting any time, wanting to get home before the storm hit. By the time I got in and logged on, there was only one other person left in the building with me - the CEO. I had no idea he was there, since his office was in the other side of the building. The office building was like a one-story strip mall, with the "stores" occupied by different companies.
As I tried to zero in on the problem program, I couldn't help but hear the storm outside. The room where I was working had concrete walls and no windows, but the noise kept getting louder. I decided to take a break and head for the rest room, which was the only small interior room I could think of.
Less than a minute after I settled myself on the floor in the last stall, the power went out. No windows in there, either, so I just kept sitting there wondering what was happening. That room had better sound protection. I heard a few loud bangs, but other than that I couldn't hear much of the storm. I felt my ears popping a few times, telling me there were pressure changes. It wasn't hard to figure out that there was a tornado very close at the least.
My main thought was, "What do I do now?" I actually had time to wonder what to do! That just doesn't seem right, somehow. The obvious answer was to pray. When you're helpless, there's only one place to turn. But what do you say? I mean, it's stupid to tell God that you're in a tornado, as if He doesn't know. All I could think of was, "God, I'm here."
It seemed like a long time sitting there wondering when it would be safe to come out, and then I heard a toilet flushing next door. That told me there was somebody else there, and he evidently thought it was safe, so I got out of there as fast as I could in the dark.
The CEO had watched the storm from his office, which had a full wall of window. He was very, very fortunate that all the damage was at the back of the building. The computer room where I had been working, had lost its roof, and it was raining. There was already an inch of water on the floor. We got busy carrying computers into the dryer part of the office. The AS/400 was sitting in the water, but I knew it had a few inches of empty space at the bottom of its case, so I wasn't worried about it. Days later, after everything was cleaned up and reconnected, it came back up fine.
The windows at the back of the office (past which I walked on my way to the rest room) were all broken. Shards of broken glass were stuck in the opposite wall like darts thrown at a target. There were even some in the upper part of a chair behind a desk, where an occupant's head would have rested.
I knew it was time to leave when I started smelling gas. That was when I got to see my car. It was an dark green Saturn, a beautiful emerald. Every inch of it was pock-marked by the river rocks that had been on the roof that was no longer there. Those rocks are round, reddish, about two to three inches in diameter. They were everywhere, all over the pavement, in my car, even on the dashboard under the windshield, which was the only window still in place. It was cracked badly, but still held. The other windows were all broken out, leaving broken glass both inside and outside the car.
Between the glass and the rocks on the pavement and the gas smell, which was just as bad outside as inside the building, I decided to leave my car there. That was the last straw for it, because it stayed there in the rain for two days before the cops would let me back in the parking lot to get it. The interior was soaked, and I'm allergic to mold and fungus. Time for a new car. My twelve and twelve was on the shelf under the back window, so it got soaked, too. But I dried it out, and it's okay. Warped but still readable. A reminder of God saving me again.
The weather service says:
http://www.crh.noaa.gov/lsx/climate/torcli/stlouis.php
A small tornado left a path of damage across west St. Louis County, from the WestPort area in Maryland Heights to near Ashby Road in Overland. Most of the damage was F0 in intensity; primarily damage to trees, power lines, roofs and some decks and porches. About 30 homes and 40 businesses suffered some type of damage. The F1 damage was limited to a small area near Lackland Road and Lindbergh Boulevard. The Carol House Furniture store suffered the most damage, losing part of a wall and the roof. Two nearby automobile dealerships had about 200 cars damaged. One school had roof damage and windows broken. The one injury occurred when a century-old oak tree crashed into the kitchen where a man was sitting. He was treated for head and leg injuries.
A storm chaser says:
http://www.siue.edu/~jfarley/chase413.htm
Tornado at Work
This coming Monday will be April 13. Weather dot com is predicting rain and thunderstorms. Hopefully there won't be any tornadoes running around this time, since I am expecting a group of ladies to visit my home in the evening. Eleven years ago, that wasn't the case. In fact, I collided with a tornado that time.
I was working as a contract programmer with several part-time clients. I got a call from one of them. Someone was having a problem. I tried to talk her through some stuff over the phone, just to get more information about what she was experiencing, but she was one of those unfortunate computer users who cannot put into words what she is actually seeing on the screen. I remember another person once who kept telling me there was absolutely nothing on her screen. It was completely blank. I finally said, "Read me what your screen says." Then suddenly all kinds of error messages were gushing out of her mouth. Amazing.
Anyway, this user not only couldn't express what she was seeing, but she didn't want to take the time. She just wanted me to come and fix it. I got in my car and drove up there, but I didn't actually get to do any fixing.
The radio in the car was talking about tornadoes. Tornado warnings, tornado watches, and tornado touchdowns about five minutes before I reached my destination, and only a few miles west of where I was.
As I parked next to the back door, the employees were streaming out to go home. It was five o'clock, and they weren't wasting any time, wanting to get home before the storm hit. By the time I got in and logged on, there was only one other person left in the building with me - the CEO. I had no idea he was there, since his office was in the other side of the building. The office building was like a one-story strip mall, with the "stores" occupied by different companies.
As I tried to zero in on the problem program, I couldn't help but hear the storm outside. The room where I was working had concrete walls and no windows, but the noise kept getting louder. I decided to take a break and head for the rest room, which was the only small interior room I could think of.
Less than a minute after I settled myself on the floor in the last stall, the power went out. No windows in there, either, so I just kept sitting there wondering what was happening. That room had better sound protection. I heard a few loud bangs, but other than that I couldn't hear much of the storm. I felt my ears popping a few times, telling me there were pressure changes. It wasn't hard to figure out that there was a tornado very close at the least.
My main thought was, "What do I do now?" I actually had time to wonder what to do! That just doesn't seem right, somehow. The obvious answer was to pray. When you're helpless, there's only one place to turn. But what do you say? I mean, it's stupid to tell God that you're in a tornado, as if He doesn't know. All I could think of was, "God, I'm here."
It seemed like a long time sitting there wondering when it would be safe to come out, and then I heard a toilet flushing next door. That told me there was somebody else there, and he evidently thought it was safe, so I got out of there as fast as I could in the dark.
The CEO had watched the storm from his office, which had a full wall of window. He was very, very fortunate that all the damage was at the back of the building. The computer room where I had been working, had lost its roof, and it was raining. There was already an inch of water on the floor. We got busy carrying computers into the dryer part of the office. The AS/400 was sitting in the water, but I knew it had a few inches of empty space at the bottom of its case, so I wasn't worried about it. Days later, after everything was cleaned up and reconnected, it came back up fine.
The windows at the back of the office (past which I walked on my way to the rest room) were all broken. Shards of broken glass were stuck in the opposite wall like darts thrown at a target. There were even some in the upper part of a chair behind a desk, where an occupant's head would have rested.
I knew it was time to leave when I started smelling gas. That was when I got to see my car. It was an dark green Saturn, a beautiful emerald. Every inch of it was pock-marked by the river rocks that had been on the roof that was no longer there. Those rocks are round, reddish, about two to three inches in diameter. They were everywhere, all over the pavement, in my car, even on the dashboard under the windshield, which was the only window still in place. It was cracked badly, but still held. The other windows were all broken out, leaving broken glass both inside and outside the car.
Between the glass and the rocks on the pavement and the gas smell, which was just as bad outside as inside the building, I decided to leave my car there. That was the last straw for it, because it stayed there in the rain for two days before the cops would let me back in the parking lot to get it. The interior was soaked, and I'm allergic to mold and fungus. Time for a new car. My twelve and twelve was on the shelf under the back window, so it got soaked, too. But I dried it out, and it's okay. Warped but still readable. A reminder of God saving me again.
The weather service says:
http://www.crh.noaa.gov/lsx/climate/torcli/stlouis.php
A small tornado left a path of damage across west St. Louis County, from the WestPort area in Maryland Heights to near Ashby Road in Overland. Most of the damage was F0 in intensity; primarily damage to trees, power lines, roofs and some decks and porches. About 30 homes and 40 businesses suffered some type of damage. The F1 damage was limited to a small area near Lackland Road and Lindbergh Boulevard. The Carol House Furniture store suffered the most damage, losing part of a wall and the roof. Two nearby automobile dealerships had about 200 cars damaged. One school had roof damage and windows broken. The one injury occurred when a century-old oak tree crashed into the kitchen where a man was sitting. He was treated for head and leg injuries.
A storm chaser says:
http://www.siue.edu/~jfarley/chase413.htm
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Friday challenge for 3/27/09
This is an entry for the Friday challenge for 3/27/09
The Yellow Time Machine
The time machine was ready, he knew it! Jack had held back his excitement dozens of times now and gone over all the calculations in his mind, looking for any flaw, even the tiniest one, but it had been many days since he had found and fixed the last error. It was perfect. Now all he needed to do was test it.
There was the guinea pig test. That worked exactly right on this end. The cute little brown and white guinea pig had popped back into existence at the very moment he had programmed the machine to send it back. Of course, there was no way to tell if Bunny (who would name a guinea pig “Bunny” anyway?) had gone to the place and time it was supposed to. Or how long it had stayed before automatically returning.
At least he had the returning part down. And Bunny was still alive and healthy. All that would help when he was persuading a person to participate in a test. (To be a human guinea pig.) Hmmm. The thought of looking for someone named Bunny seemed weird, but it fit. He typed “Bunny” into the search box and hit enter. 71,700,000 results. Very helpful. Wait, the first one mentioned the Easter Bunny. There was an idea! There should be lots of those running around right now.
He looked up costumes in the yellow pages and found a store that rented costumes less than a mile away. He wrote down the number and called. It didn’t take long to find out they did have some Easter Bunny costumes, but they were all rented out. He hung up and dashed out to his car. Some things had to be done in person.
At the store, Jack was a master of persuasion and innocence. He explained that he was doing research for a class project in psychology. It was a study of what kinds of people rented costumes and required that he interview several. Since the clerk was young and female, he used all his charm and smiles, and she became very helpful. He ended up with the names of three people who had rented an Easter Bunny costume, two men and one woman. The three were college students with addresses near the campus. He immediately paid a visit to all three.
The two men were reserved and uncooperative. He suspected they didn’t believe his story. But the woman, a beautiful redhead named Sandy, was much more friendly. He was able to set up a time for the “interview” next week.
“I can’t do it this week, because I’m practicing for the Earth Day drama this weekend, and my parents are coming in town to attend the festivities with me,” Sandy explained. At Jack’s look of interest, she invited him to watch the drama, too.
“Thank you, I think I will. It will help my project a lot.” He smiled even more charmingly than before.
****************************************************************************
It was when Jack was on his way to the Earth Day events that the accident happened. He was walking up to the entrance of the park, when he heard screeching of tires and the crashing of large metal objects colliding. There were three cars involved. Apparently one had run a red light and crashed into two cars going through the intersection in opposite directions.
Jack and several other bystanders ran over to the mass of crumpled metal. He knew immediately it was Sandy. The Easter Bunny was slumped half way over the front seat, not moving. The ambulances and paramedics arrived quickly, and before he had even recovered from the shock, Sandy and her parents were on their way to the hospital, along with two other injured people from the other cars.
****************************************************************************
He went to visit Sandy at the hospital a few days later. She was recovering nicely from her injuries, which were mostly bruises and surgeries to remove her spleen and repair a few other internal things. However, her parents were both killed. He didn’t quite know how to talk to someone who had just lost her parents, but he figured she had to need some friendly faces right now, and he wanted to make sure she saw at least one.
He was the only visitor she had, so he kept coming back. Sometimes he found her in tears, and she burst forth with the sad details of her life. She had discovered her parents had not had insurance, and the emergency medical bills were eating up what savings they had. It was quickly becoming evident that she would not be able to continue school. The house was heavily mortgaged, and she would have to sell it to pay that debt.
“I don’t know how they could afford to give me any money for school,” Sandy sobbed one day. “And how could they not have insurance? I just don’t understand.”
Jack did his best to comfort her during his visits, and gradually she stopped sobbing and became silent and moody. That was why he was very surprised one day to find her yelling and shaking her fist at the TV in her hospital room.
“She is such an idiot!” Sandy was glaring at the TV. Seeing Jack’s surprise, she explained. “That crazy singer, that Lady … somebody, I can’t remember her name. She thinks she was born in the wrong era, and she wishes she could go back in time and seduce John Lennon and keep the Beatles together so they could have produced more songs and still be alive and singing.”
Jack just looked at her, at a loss to know what to say. “Why are you so upset?” he finally asked.
Sandy quieted down. “I think it would be wasted on her. She has everything she needs. She shouldn’t get to go back and try to change history.” She was silent for a moment, then a small smile peeked out on her face. “Listen to me! As if I could go back in time and change things. I’m sillier than she is.”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears. Was this going to fall into his lap, without all his planned manipulations and persuasions? “Well, maybe that’s not as impossible as you think.”
****************************************************************************
Two months later, Jack was preparing the time machine for its first big test: sending a human back in time. At last he would have the answer to the question of whether or not history could actually be changed with time travel. Well, he would have that answer some time today. The deal he had worked out with Sandy was that she would go back for a short test first, and if everything went okay with that one, then she would do a longer test and attempt to change history.
He was still mystified by her enthusiasm, or rather, her stubborn determination. The first test was for Sandy to go back to her parents’ house the day before she was born. He could understand how cool that would be, going to meet your parents when they wouldn’t recognize you, but he was afraid she had ulterior motives.
The doorbell rang, and Jack opened the door to find a very conservatively dressed Sandy. She was wearing a gray suit, had her hair pinned back, and carried a briefcase. “Who are you going to be?” he asked.
“An insurance sales person,” Sandy answered, pushing her way past him. “I need to convince them to buy insurance for their daughter in case something happens to them.”
Jack could see by the look on her face that no one was going to get in her way, and now he understood her purpose in wanting to help him test the time machine. He hadn’t wanted her to try to change history on this first test, but he shrugged. It was actually a good idea, just trying to change one specific thing.
“Okay, that’s good. I want you, no, I want both of us to write ourselves a note saying what you’re doing and what you’re going to attempt to change. I don’t know what will happen if you succeed. Will we remember the way it was before? The notes will show us what it was like before, in case we don’t remember.”
Sandy frowned slightly as she thought over what he had said. “But if we change history, won’t that mean the note will disappear?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”
****************************************************************************
Sandy walked briskly up to the door of the house she had grown up in. It wasn’t a very big house, but she had many good memories of her life there. It looked very much the way she remembered it, but the tree in front was much smaller, and the door was a different color. She pressed the doorbell and waited.
The woman who opened the door was quite a bit younger than the way she was used to seeing her, but she knew her mother immediately. Sandy took a breath and prepared to launch into her sales pitch, but before she could even get the first word out, she stopped, paralyzed in shock. Her mother was not pregnant!
“Oh hello! I’m so glad you could make it after all. I’m Joan.” Sandy’s mother was holding out her hand. Sandy automatically took it, but her brain was lost in a whirl of questions. “Won’t you come in? Would you like some coffee?”
Sandy followed her mother in to the living room, running on auto-pilot, turning down the coffee, and sitting in the chair her mother pointed out, hardly listening to the torrent of words pouring from Joan. She’s more nervous than I am, she thought.
“I was hoping you could tell me some details, like will you call us when the baby is born? We want to know if everything is alright, and we want to know how much she weighed, and what time she was born, and what color her hair is, and all those things. I have a baby book here on the desk, and I’m going to fill in everything.” Joan jumped up and almost ran over to the desk to pick up the baby book.
“Oh yes, I’m sure you will be notified,” said Sandy, while she was frantically casting about for something to say that would fit in with this situation. She had to get around to the insurance. “Actually, I discovered there are a few things that haven’t been covered yet in your file, so I was hoping we could go over those.”
“Oh?” Joan looked surprised. “What things?”
“I don’t see any record of you and your husband having life insurance. You know, that’s very important to have, in case something happens.”
“Oh yes! We will definitely take care of that. You’re right, it’s important. I guess we just haven’t thought about it.”
“Will you promise me you will do that today?” Sandy persisted.
“I promise,” Joan said with a smile. “Anything else?”
“Well, there isn’t a very thorough note here about why you are doing this,” Sandy said impulsively. She very much wanted to know about her adoption, since her parents had never said a word about it to her.
Joan looked distressed. “Oh. Well, I can’t have children. I know I told the other case workers that. We have waited so long, hoping against hope that the doctors were wrong, but we can’t wait any longer. I’m almost 40 now. And Jim is 41.”
“Did you try fertility drugs or anything else like that?”
“No,” said Joan quietly. “We asked about it, but the doctors wouldn’t consider it, because of …. of what happened.”
“Because of what happened?” repeated Sandy.
Joan looked even more distressed. “I was gang raped when I was thirteen. They were very brutal. It took weeks to recover, and the doctors said I would never be able to have children.” She burst into tears.
Sandy moved quickly over to sit beside her mother on the couch, and she held her and rocked her for a long time, while Joan let her anguish spill out after all those years of keeping it bottled up. Sandy listened in horror to the tragic story.
Joan’s parents had taken her to England for vacation, along with several of her cousins. They were eager to experience the wild music of Liverpool, from which the Beatles were emerging. One late night, Joan had gotten separated from the others and pulled out into the alley by a group of teenage boys who were drunk and looking for excitement. After the police interrupted their assault on Joan, it came out that the boys had felt their girlfriends were paying too little attention to them and too much attention to the Beatles. They had decided to get their revenge on any girl who was in the Beatles’ audience.
****************************************************************************
Sandy popped back into Jack’s lab with fire in her eyes. He took a couple of steps back, not knowing what to expect.
“Yes, it worked,” Sandy said abruptly. “It didn’t hurt, and I remember what I wrote in the note. Where is it?”
Jack held it out, and Sandy snatched and read it. “I remember this. It says I was going back in time to find out why my parents adopted me, and why my mother killed herself when I was thirteen. I found out.”
Jack read his own note. It said the same thing. “So we know the time machine works, and it doesn’t do any damage, although we should get you checked out by a doctor before you travel again. We’ll do the next test as soon as we have the doctor’s okay. And this time you’ll try to change history. Do you know yet what you are going to change?”
“Yup. I’m going to kill the Beatles.”
Jack protested in surprise. “Wait a minute! You can’t do that! They’ll arrest you.”
“Okay, then I’ll just demolish their group. That should do it. I’ll do the opposite of what that Lady Gaga wants to do. I can seduce John Lennon just as good as she can, only I’ll just seduce him right away from the group, out into oblivion.”
****************************************************************************
Sandy was ready to time travel back to Liverpool. Jack made them write notes again, both of which said she was going back to prevent the Beatles from becoming a famous group by seducing John Lennon away from Liverpool and music. She had packed a wad of money in old bills from her insurance money. If nothing else, she would pay him to go away with her.
****************************************************************************
Sandy popped back into the lab with a lost look about her. She also looked older. She had been gone three months in the time she went to, although it was only three days in this time.
“You okay?” Jack asked. He was concerned that she looked so much older. “Were you gone three months, or was it longer?”
“Yeah, it was three months. I’m fine. It was hard this time, though. If I hadn’t known how important it was, I don’t think I could have gone through with it. He wasn’t the nicest man in the world to be with, but after three months with him, I was beginning to like him.”
“But you succeeded in protecting the president. That’s worth a lot more than any frustrated rock star wanna-be. They’ll be giving you medals for this one.”
“They can keep the medals. I just want the money. Gotta keep my Bunny in the tastiest cat food, ya know. You did remember to feed her while I was gone, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I went over there every day. I even petted her. She’s a sweet kitty. Where did you get her?”
“I picked her up at the Humane Society the day I got out of the orphanage. They never let us have pets there, so that was the first thing I wanted to do when I left.”
“Well, we’re about done here, except for reading the notes. Does yours check out? Mine does. I remember writing this. You were going back in time to kill John Lennon to prevent him from coming over to the U.S. and shooting President Bush on the street.”
Jack looked up expectantly.
“Yes,” Sandy replied. “Mine says the same thing, and I remember writing it.”
****************************************************************************
The Yellow Time Machine
The time machine was ready, he knew it! Jack had held back his excitement dozens of times now and gone over all the calculations in his mind, looking for any flaw, even the tiniest one, but it had been many days since he had found and fixed the last error. It was perfect. Now all he needed to do was test it.
There was the guinea pig test. That worked exactly right on this end. The cute little brown and white guinea pig had popped back into existence at the very moment he had programmed the machine to send it back. Of course, there was no way to tell if Bunny (who would name a guinea pig “Bunny” anyway?) had gone to the place and time it was supposed to. Or how long it had stayed before automatically returning.
At least he had the returning part down. And Bunny was still alive and healthy. All that would help when he was persuading a person to participate in a test. (To be a human guinea pig.) Hmmm. The thought of looking for someone named Bunny seemed weird, but it fit. He typed “Bunny” into the search box and hit enter. 71,700,000 results. Very helpful. Wait, the first one mentioned the Easter Bunny. There was an idea! There should be lots of those running around right now.
He looked up costumes in the yellow pages and found a store that rented costumes less than a mile away. He wrote down the number and called. It didn’t take long to find out they did have some Easter Bunny costumes, but they were all rented out. He hung up and dashed out to his car. Some things had to be done in person.
At the store, Jack was a master of persuasion and innocence. He explained that he was doing research for a class project in psychology. It was a study of what kinds of people rented costumes and required that he interview several. Since the clerk was young and female, he used all his charm and smiles, and she became very helpful. He ended up with the names of three people who had rented an Easter Bunny costume, two men and one woman. The three were college students with addresses near the campus. He immediately paid a visit to all three.
The two men were reserved and uncooperative. He suspected they didn’t believe his story. But the woman, a beautiful redhead named Sandy, was much more friendly. He was able to set up a time for the “interview” next week.
“I can’t do it this week, because I’m practicing for the Earth Day drama this weekend, and my parents are coming in town to attend the festivities with me,” Sandy explained. At Jack’s look of interest, she invited him to watch the drama, too.
“Thank you, I think I will. It will help my project a lot.” He smiled even more charmingly than before.
****************************************************************************
It was when Jack was on his way to the Earth Day events that the accident happened. He was walking up to the entrance of the park, when he heard screeching of tires and the crashing of large metal objects colliding. There were three cars involved. Apparently one had run a red light and crashed into two cars going through the intersection in opposite directions.
Jack and several other bystanders ran over to the mass of crumpled metal. He knew immediately it was Sandy. The Easter Bunny was slumped half way over the front seat, not moving. The ambulances and paramedics arrived quickly, and before he had even recovered from the shock, Sandy and her parents were on their way to the hospital, along with two other injured people from the other cars.
****************************************************************************
He went to visit Sandy at the hospital a few days later. She was recovering nicely from her injuries, which were mostly bruises and surgeries to remove her spleen and repair a few other internal things. However, her parents were both killed. He didn’t quite know how to talk to someone who had just lost her parents, but he figured she had to need some friendly faces right now, and he wanted to make sure she saw at least one.
He was the only visitor she had, so he kept coming back. Sometimes he found her in tears, and she burst forth with the sad details of her life. She had discovered her parents had not had insurance, and the emergency medical bills were eating up what savings they had. It was quickly becoming evident that she would not be able to continue school. The house was heavily mortgaged, and she would have to sell it to pay that debt.
“I don’t know how they could afford to give me any money for school,” Sandy sobbed one day. “And how could they not have insurance? I just don’t understand.”
Jack did his best to comfort her during his visits, and gradually she stopped sobbing and became silent and moody. That was why he was very surprised one day to find her yelling and shaking her fist at the TV in her hospital room.
“She is such an idiot!” Sandy was glaring at the TV. Seeing Jack’s surprise, she explained. “That crazy singer, that Lady … somebody, I can’t remember her name. She thinks she was born in the wrong era, and she wishes she could go back in time and seduce John Lennon and keep the Beatles together so they could have produced more songs and still be alive and singing.”
Jack just looked at her, at a loss to know what to say. “Why are you so upset?” he finally asked.
Sandy quieted down. “I think it would be wasted on her. She has everything she needs. She shouldn’t get to go back and try to change history.” She was silent for a moment, then a small smile peeked out on her face. “Listen to me! As if I could go back in time and change things. I’m sillier than she is.”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears. Was this going to fall into his lap, without all his planned manipulations and persuasions? “Well, maybe that’s not as impossible as you think.”
****************************************************************************
Two months later, Jack was preparing the time machine for its first big test: sending a human back in time. At last he would have the answer to the question of whether or not history could actually be changed with time travel. Well, he would have that answer some time today. The deal he had worked out with Sandy was that she would go back for a short test first, and if everything went okay with that one, then she would do a longer test and attempt to change history.
He was still mystified by her enthusiasm, or rather, her stubborn determination. The first test was for Sandy to go back to her parents’ house the day before she was born. He could understand how cool that would be, going to meet your parents when they wouldn’t recognize you, but he was afraid she had ulterior motives.
The doorbell rang, and Jack opened the door to find a very conservatively dressed Sandy. She was wearing a gray suit, had her hair pinned back, and carried a briefcase. “Who are you going to be?” he asked.
“An insurance sales person,” Sandy answered, pushing her way past him. “I need to convince them to buy insurance for their daughter in case something happens to them.”
Jack could see by the look on her face that no one was going to get in her way, and now he understood her purpose in wanting to help him test the time machine. He hadn’t wanted her to try to change history on this first test, but he shrugged. It was actually a good idea, just trying to change one specific thing.
“Okay, that’s good. I want you, no, I want both of us to write ourselves a note saying what you’re doing and what you’re going to attempt to change. I don’t know what will happen if you succeed. Will we remember the way it was before? The notes will show us what it was like before, in case we don’t remember.”
Sandy frowned slightly as she thought over what he had said. “But if we change history, won’t that mean the note will disappear?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”
****************************************************************************
Sandy walked briskly up to the door of the house she had grown up in. It wasn’t a very big house, but she had many good memories of her life there. It looked very much the way she remembered it, but the tree in front was much smaller, and the door was a different color. She pressed the doorbell and waited.
The woman who opened the door was quite a bit younger than the way she was used to seeing her, but she knew her mother immediately. Sandy took a breath and prepared to launch into her sales pitch, but before she could even get the first word out, she stopped, paralyzed in shock. Her mother was not pregnant!
“Oh hello! I’m so glad you could make it after all. I’m Joan.” Sandy’s mother was holding out her hand. Sandy automatically took it, but her brain was lost in a whirl of questions. “Won’t you come in? Would you like some coffee?”
Sandy followed her mother in to the living room, running on auto-pilot, turning down the coffee, and sitting in the chair her mother pointed out, hardly listening to the torrent of words pouring from Joan. She’s more nervous than I am, she thought.
“I was hoping you could tell me some details, like will you call us when the baby is born? We want to know if everything is alright, and we want to know how much she weighed, and what time she was born, and what color her hair is, and all those things. I have a baby book here on the desk, and I’m going to fill in everything.” Joan jumped up and almost ran over to the desk to pick up the baby book.
“Oh yes, I’m sure you will be notified,” said Sandy, while she was frantically casting about for something to say that would fit in with this situation. She had to get around to the insurance. “Actually, I discovered there are a few things that haven’t been covered yet in your file, so I was hoping we could go over those.”
“Oh?” Joan looked surprised. “What things?”
“I don’t see any record of you and your husband having life insurance. You know, that’s very important to have, in case something happens.”
“Oh yes! We will definitely take care of that. You’re right, it’s important. I guess we just haven’t thought about it.”
“Will you promise me you will do that today?” Sandy persisted.
“I promise,” Joan said with a smile. “Anything else?”
“Well, there isn’t a very thorough note here about why you are doing this,” Sandy said impulsively. She very much wanted to know about her adoption, since her parents had never said a word about it to her.
Joan looked distressed. “Oh. Well, I can’t have children. I know I told the other case workers that. We have waited so long, hoping against hope that the doctors were wrong, but we can’t wait any longer. I’m almost 40 now. And Jim is 41.”
“Did you try fertility drugs or anything else like that?”
“No,” said Joan quietly. “We asked about it, but the doctors wouldn’t consider it, because of …. of what happened.”
“Because of what happened?” repeated Sandy.
Joan looked even more distressed. “I was gang raped when I was thirteen. They were very brutal. It took weeks to recover, and the doctors said I would never be able to have children.” She burst into tears.
Sandy moved quickly over to sit beside her mother on the couch, and she held her and rocked her for a long time, while Joan let her anguish spill out after all those years of keeping it bottled up. Sandy listened in horror to the tragic story.
Joan’s parents had taken her to England for vacation, along with several of her cousins. They were eager to experience the wild music of Liverpool, from which the Beatles were emerging. One late night, Joan had gotten separated from the others and pulled out into the alley by a group of teenage boys who were drunk and looking for excitement. After the police interrupted their assault on Joan, it came out that the boys had felt their girlfriends were paying too little attention to them and too much attention to the Beatles. They had decided to get their revenge on any girl who was in the Beatles’ audience.
****************************************************************************
Sandy popped back into Jack’s lab with fire in her eyes. He took a couple of steps back, not knowing what to expect.
“Yes, it worked,” Sandy said abruptly. “It didn’t hurt, and I remember what I wrote in the note. Where is it?”
Jack held it out, and Sandy snatched and read it. “I remember this. It says I was going back in time to find out why my parents adopted me, and why my mother killed herself when I was thirteen. I found out.”
Jack read his own note. It said the same thing. “So we know the time machine works, and it doesn’t do any damage, although we should get you checked out by a doctor before you travel again. We’ll do the next test as soon as we have the doctor’s okay. And this time you’ll try to change history. Do you know yet what you are going to change?”
“Yup. I’m going to kill the Beatles.”
Jack protested in surprise. “Wait a minute! You can’t do that! They’ll arrest you.”
“Okay, then I’ll just demolish their group. That should do it. I’ll do the opposite of what that Lady Gaga wants to do. I can seduce John Lennon just as good as she can, only I’ll just seduce him right away from the group, out into oblivion.”
****************************************************************************
Sandy was ready to time travel back to Liverpool. Jack made them write notes again, both of which said she was going back to prevent the Beatles from becoming a famous group by seducing John Lennon away from Liverpool and music. She had packed a wad of money in old bills from her insurance money. If nothing else, she would pay him to go away with her.
****************************************************************************
Sandy popped back into the lab with a lost look about her. She also looked older. She had been gone three months in the time she went to, although it was only three days in this time.
“You okay?” Jack asked. He was concerned that she looked so much older. “Were you gone three months, or was it longer?”
“Yeah, it was three months. I’m fine. It was hard this time, though. If I hadn’t known how important it was, I don’t think I could have gone through with it. He wasn’t the nicest man in the world to be with, but after three months with him, I was beginning to like him.”
“But you succeeded in protecting the president. That’s worth a lot more than any frustrated rock star wanna-be. They’ll be giving you medals for this one.”
“They can keep the medals. I just want the money. Gotta keep my Bunny in the tastiest cat food, ya know. You did remember to feed her while I was gone, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I went over there every day. I even petted her. She’s a sweet kitty. Where did you get her?”
“I picked her up at the Humane Society the day I got out of the orphanage. They never let us have pets there, so that was the first thing I wanted to do when I left.”
“Well, we’re about done here, except for reading the notes. Does yours check out? Mine does. I remember writing this. You were going back in time to kill John Lennon to prevent him from coming over to the U.S. and shooting President Bush on the street.”
Jack looked up expectantly.
“Yes,” Sandy replied. “Mine says the same thing, and I remember writing it.”
****************************************************************************
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Heart of Happiness
This week's Friday Challenge is here. It was supposed to be
"Hence this week's assignment. I want you to think about, plot out, and make at least a promising start towards writing a modern, updated, 21st century (or later) good clanking hard sci-fi remake of Heart of Darkness."
I'm not sure I do "good clanking hard sci-fi," but this is my story --
The Heart of Happiness
The world has been changed, no doubt about that. The doctor appeared out of nowhere, set up shop, and proceeded to create a thriving business. By the time the media started checking out his background, there were actually lines of people waiting to get in to his clinic. When they could find no record of any medical school or license to practice, nobody cared. He was working miracles.
I was his first patient. Really! I’m not making it up. He was fastening his name plate next to the door of the clinic when I collapsed on the steps. I was exhausted and just needed to rest. When you weigh 355 pounds, walking takes a lot out of you. And if you’re carrying a bag of groceries, it totally wipes you out, especially if the bag is full of foods that are good for you. Apples and grapefruit are a lot heavier than marshmallow bread and bags of chips. And cantaloupe! That’s really good for you, but impossible to carry two and a half blocks.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” He was a tall, fit man with warm brown eyes and blonde hair. He was quite handsome, almost as though he was an actor playing the part of a doctor, not actually the doctor himself. He looked at me with concern, and then he came down the steps and put his hand on my shoulder. "Please come in and let me see if I can help you feel better."
He helped me up, then took my bag of groceries and carried them through the door. I felt I had no choice but to follow my groceries, but if I had it to do over, I don't know if I could have entered that clinic.
The inside was very spacious, with a large waiting room full of empty chairs, and a long desk-counter-top with computers and phones for eight assistants to make appointments and process payments. It looked huge for a new clinic. I thought the doctor must have a large following from his previous location.
“We don’t open until tomorrow, so let’s consider this an introductory session for a neighbor, free of charge.” He smiled. “I am Doctor Conrad, and I’m pleased to meet you. Do you live very close?”
“Yes, just around the corner. I’m Maryann Blaise. It will be nice to have a clinic in this neighborhood. Is it a general clinic, or do you have a specialty?” I asked.
“We do have a specialty, Maryann, but it encompasses so many areas that there are very few things we don’t treat,” replied the doctor. “We strive to enable our patients to enjoy perfect health and happiness.”
He was interrupted when a beautiful young woman in jeans walked in to the waiting room, holding an armful of disposable gowns.
“Ah, there you are, Jean. We have our first patient, Maryann, a neighbor from around the corner. Would you please take her into one of the examining rooms while I wash my hands? I will be in shortly.”
Jean dumped the gowns onto the desk and turned her attention to me. She was very friendly, and soon had me sitting in a nearby room, where she took my blood pressure and temperature and all those basic measurements of health. She started a patient record for me and was just finished writing down the last thing when Dr. Conrad walked in, this time wearing a white coat. He read what she had written, and then asked me a million more questions. It ended up with him telling me my worst problem was my weight (as if I didn’t know!) and that would be what he would treat first. I tried to tell him about all the other doctors and how their treatments hadn’t worked, and the multitude of diets and self-help groups and books I had tried, all to no avail, but he assured me he would not fail to help me.
Then he launched into an explanation of the treatment and how it worked. I don’t think I understood very much. What he described seemed like x-rays or some kind of magnetic waves, but different. He promised me it wouldn’t be painful or harmful in any way, and that it would gradually make me more healthy, week after week, until I would reach a normal weight. And the first treatment was free, if I would do it today. He had a lot more to say, but it was even harder for me to understand, because it seemed so magical. He could make me happy and beautiful and young. It sounded so too-good-to-be-true that I almost turned down his free first treatment. But it was free. I couldn’t pass it up.
He took me into a treatment room, where I sat in a lounge-chair thing. He pushed a button, and the chair stretched out and became a soft table. Then he pushed another button, and the big machine next to the chair hummed for a few minutes until he turned it off. He made the table fold up into a chair again, and then we went back to the examining room where I stepped on the scale again. I had lost ten pounds!
It was hard for me to concentrate on his summary of what the machine had done, because I was arguing with myself over the ten pounds. I couldn’t help but feel it was fake, that Jean had recalibrated the scale while I was in the treatment room. After all, I didn’t feel any different. But I forced myself to listen to him. He said the machine had agreed with his diagnosis that I needed to weigh less (duh!), and it had found several of my organs were not working as well as they should, so it had taken away ten pounds and boosted my thyroid production and refreshed my adrenals and removed scar tissue from my liver, all with the idea that it was improving my metabolism. Those were the things I recognized. I’m not exactly a medical professional or anything, so I didn’t know what the rest of it meant--stuff about the chemical balance in my brain.
He ended by saying I should give it a week and see how I was feeling. If I wanted to continue the treatments, I could come back in and schedule appointments and arrange a payment plan. I asked him how much it cost, and he was a little vague, but he did say that the cost of a single treatment was $200, and that the cost per treatment went down the more treatments were needed, down to only $50 each or less, depending.
So, I went home with my groceries. The first thing I did, of course, was weigh myself, and yes, I had really lost 10 pounds. At the end of that week, I had lost another pound. That was the first time in many years I had actually lost weight just from dieting. It sure looked like Dr. Conrad’s machine had gotten my metabolism going better.
It wasn't until a few days later that I noticed the tiny mole on the side of my nose was gone. I don't know a whole lot about moles, so I concluded it had disappeared the same way it had suddenly appeared several months ago.
So here I was at the end of the week, arguing with myself constantly about whether or not I wanted to go back. In the end, I won the argument, and I went back to the clinic. I knew it was my only hope for losing weight. However, this time there were eight assistants sitting at their computers and maybe ten patients sitting in the waiting room. I went right up to the desk and started asking questions about the cost. I found out that every time I told someone about Dr. Conrad, and that person came and got an introductory free treatment, then I would get a free treatment, too. That sounded terrific to me. I signed up for a year of weekly treatments, which reduced my cost to $40 per week.
The weeks went by very quickly, and I lost ten pounds every week until I was actually at a normal weight. It was a miracle! I also got 38 people to try the introductory treatment, so I ended up not paying for very many weeks. But that wasn't the only thing that was happening. My gray hair disappeared, and one time Dr. Conrad asked me if I would like to change my hair color, so I did. I chose auburn. It was permanently changed. No roots to touch up.
There were so many things that changed. My body became very healthy and fit, and my face gradually became beautiful. I almost didn't recognise myself when I looked in the mirror. I felt confident, I had new skills, I could speak four other languages, I could play the piano beautifully, and most of all, I was happy. Ecstatically happy!
Meanwhile, Dr. Conrad opened up more clinics all over the world. I don't know how he found so many people to run them or how he made so many of those machines, but he didn't seem to have any trouble with that. He was curing incureable diseases and handicaps of all kinds. He actually made starving people gain weight! Half the world had been in his clinics, and he was given awards and so much news coverage that it was hard to find any other topic on TV. The world began to treat him as if he was a god or something. He could do no wrong.
When the spaceship appeared, nobody was worried. They were too happy to worry. But when the occupants of the spaceship took over all of the media we no longer talked incessantly about Dr. Conrad. Instead, they told us who he was and what he had really been doing. I had a hard time listening to it, because I just didn't believe it.
Turns out the machines were swapping and transforming things. They pulled out things from people that had too much and put it in people that didn't have enough. There were a lot of fat people in the world, and the machines were turning the excess fat into other things -- more machines, more staff, supplies, and buildings for the new clinics that were springing up everywhere. They took tumors and scar tissue out and put in feelings of happiness and self-esteem.
Then we learned what the media hadn't told us. People not only didn't worry any more, they didn't care any more, either. Nobody helped any one else. They were too busy being healthy, beautiful, and happy. Hospitals closed, leaving no emergency care for injuries. Staff in old folks' homes walked out and went to the beach, leaving helpless patients to die. Churches were deserted. Priests and nuns took off their robes and went on vacation.
CEO's retired and walked out on their jobs. People didn't need to work any more. They could get whatever they needed from Dr. Conrad's machines.
At the end of the alien's speech on TV, he told us Dr. Conrad was "The Evil One" who had come to steal our souls. His goal was to get us to go to him instead of God for everything we wanted or needed. He had done this to other planets, and these aliens were following him to fix the damage he had done, because he had stolen their technology to do it.
I'll never forget his final words. "We will use our science to repair your planet. You will go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be the way it was before Dr. Conrad came here." And I'll never forget what I felt when I heard that. I knew I would no longer be thin, beautiful, healthy, and happy, but I wasn't worried or afraid. I was ecstatically happy.
The earth slept. And woke.
"Oh, God..."
"Hence this week's assignment. I want you to think about, plot out, and make at least a promising start towards writing a modern, updated, 21st century (or later) good clanking hard sci-fi remake of Heart of Darkness."
I'm not sure I do "good clanking hard sci-fi," but this is my story --
The Heart of Happiness
The world has been changed, no doubt about that. The doctor appeared out of nowhere, set up shop, and proceeded to create a thriving business. By the time the media started checking out his background, there were actually lines of people waiting to get in to his clinic. When they could find no record of any medical school or license to practice, nobody cared. He was working miracles.
I was his first patient. Really! I’m not making it up. He was fastening his name plate next to the door of the clinic when I collapsed on the steps. I was exhausted and just needed to rest. When you weigh 355 pounds, walking takes a lot out of you. And if you’re carrying a bag of groceries, it totally wipes you out, especially if the bag is full of foods that are good for you. Apples and grapefruit are a lot heavier than marshmallow bread and bags of chips. And cantaloupe! That’s really good for you, but impossible to carry two and a half blocks.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” He was a tall, fit man with warm brown eyes and blonde hair. He was quite handsome, almost as though he was an actor playing the part of a doctor, not actually the doctor himself. He looked at me with concern, and then he came down the steps and put his hand on my shoulder. "Please come in and let me see if I can help you feel better."
He helped me up, then took my bag of groceries and carried them through the door. I felt I had no choice but to follow my groceries, but if I had it to do over, I don't know if I could have entered that clinic.
The inside was very spacious, with a large waiting room full of empty chairs, and a long desk-counter-top with computers and phones for eight assistants to make appointments and process payments. It looked huge for a new clinic. I thought the doctor must have a large following from his previous location.
“We don’t open until tomorrow, so let’s consider this an introductory session for a neighbor, free of charge.” He smiled. “I am Doctor Conrad, and I’m pleased to meet you. Do you live very close?”
“Yes, just around the corner. I’m Maryann Blaise. It will be nice to have a clinic in this neighborhood. Is it a general clinic, or do you have a specialty?” I asked.
“We do have a specialty, Maryann, but it encompasses so many areas that there are very few things we don’t treat,” replied the doctor. “We strive to enable our patients to enjoy perfect health and happiness.”
He was interrupted when a beautiful young woman in jeans walked in to the waiting room, holding an armful of disposable gowns.
“Ah, there you are, Jean. We have our first patient, Maryann, a neighbor from around the corner. Would you please take her into one of the examining rooms while I wash my hands? I will be in shortly.”
Jean dumped the gowns onto the desk and turned her attention to me. She was very friendly, and soon had me sitting in a nearby room, where she took my blood pressure and temperature and all those basic measurements of health. She started a patient record for me and was just finished writing down the last thing when Dr. Conrad walked in, this time wearing a white coat. He read what she had written, and then asked me a million more questions. It ended up with him telling me my worst problem was my weight (as if I didn’t know!) and that would be what he would treat first. I tried to tell him about all the other doctors and how their treatments hadn’t worked, and the multitude of diets and self-help groups and books I had tried, all to no avail, but he assured me he would not fail to help me.
Then he launched into an explanation of the treatment and how it worked. I don’t think I understood very much. What he described seemed like x-rays or some kind of magnetic waves, but different. He promised me it wouldn’t be painful or harmful in any way, and that it would gradually make me more healthy, week after week, until I would reach a normal weight. And the first treatment was free, if I would do it today. He had a lot more to say, but it was even harder for me to understand, because it seemed so magical. He could make me happy and beautiful and young. It sounded so too-good-to-be-true that I almost turned down his free first treatment. But it was free. I couldn’t pass it up.
He took me into a treatment room, where I sat in a lounge-chair thing. He pushed a button, and the chair stretched out and became a soft table. Then he pushed another button, and the big machine next to the chair hummed for a few minutes until he turned it off. He made the table fold up into a chair again, and then we went back to the examining room where I stepped on the scale again. I had lost ten pounds!
It was hard for me to concentrate on his summary of what the machine had done, because I was arguing with myself over the ten pounds. I couldn’t help but feel it was fake, that Jean had recalibrated the scale while I was in the treatment room. After all, I didn’t feel any different. But I forced myself to listen to him. He said the machine had agreed with his diagnosis that I needed to weigh less (duh!), and it had found several of my organs were not working as well as they should, so it had taken away ten pounds and boosted my thyroid production and refreshed my adrenals and removed scar tissue from my liver, all with the idea that it was improving my metabolism. Those were the things I recognized. I’m not exactly a medical professional or anything, so I didn’t know what the rest of it meant--stuff about the chemical balance in my brain.
He ended by saying I should give it a week and see how I was feeling. If I wanted to continue the treatments, I could come back in and schedule appointments and arrange a payment plan. I asked him how much it cost, and he was a little vague, but he did say that the cost of a single treatment was $200, and that the cost per treatment went down the more treatments were needed, down to only $50 each or less, depending.
So, I went home with my groceries. The first thing I did, of course, was weigh myself, and yes, I had really lost 10 pounds. At the end of that week, I had lost another pound. That was the first time in many years I had actually lost weight just from dieting. It sure looked like Dr. Conrad’s machine had gotten my metabolism going better.
It wasn't until a few days later that I noticed the tiny mole on the side of my nose was gone. I don't know a whole lot about moles, so I concluded it had disappeared the same way it had suddenly appeared several months ago.
So here I was at the end of the week, arguing with myself constantly about whether or not I wanted to go back. In the end, I won the argument, and I went back to the clinic. I knew it was my only hope for losing weight. However, this time there were eight assistants sitting at their computers and maybe ten patients sitting in the waiting room. I went right up to the desk and started asking questions about the cost. I found out that every time I told someone about Dr. Conrad, and that person came and got an introductory free treatment, then I would get a free treatment, too. That sounded terrific to me. I signed up for a year of weekly treatments, which reduced my cost to $40 per week.
The weeks went by very quickly, and I lost ten pounds every week until I was actually at a normal weight. It was a miracle! I also got 38 people to try the introductory treatment, so I ended up not paying for very many weeks. But that wasn't the only thing that was happening. My gray hair disappeared, and one time Dr. Conrad asked me if I would like to change my hair color, so I did. I chose auburn. It was permanently changed. No roots to touch up.
There were so many things that changed. My body became very healthy and fit, and my face gradually became beautiful. I almost didn't recognise myself when I looked in the mirror. I felt confident, I had new skills, I could speak four other languages, I could play the piano beautifully, and most of all, I was happy. Ecstatically happy!
Meanwhile, Dr. Conrad opened up more clinics all over the world. I don't know how he found so many people to run them or how he made so many of those machines, but he didn't seem to have any trouble with that. He was curing incureable diseases and handicaps of all kinds. He actually made starving people gain weight! Half the world had been in his clinics, and he was given awards and so much news coverage that it was hard to find any other topic on TV. The world began to treat him as if he was a god or something. He could do no wrong.
When the spaceship appeared, nobody was worried. They were too happy to worry. But when the occupants of the spaceship took over all of the media we no longer talked incessantly about Dr. Conrad. Instead, they told us who he was and what he had really been doing. I had a hard time listening to it, because I just didn't believe it.
Turns out the machines were swapping and transforming things. They pulled out things from people that had too much and put it in people that didn't have enough. There were a lot of fat people in the world, and the machines were turning the excess fat into other things -- more machines, more staff, supplies, and buildings for the new clinics that were springing up everywhere. They took tumors and scar tissue out and put in feelings of happiness and self-esteem.
Then we learned what the media hadn't told us. People not only didn't worry any more, they didn't care any more, either. Nobody helped any one else. They were too busy being healthy, beautiful, and happy. Hospitals closed, leaving no emergency care for injuries. Staff in old folks' homes walked out and went to the beach, leaving helpless patients to die. Churches were deserted. Priests and nuns took off their robes and went on vacation.
CEO's retired and walked out on their jobs. People didn't need to work any more. They could get whatever they needed from Dr. Conrad's machines.
At the end of the alien's speech on TV, he told us Dr. Conrad was "The Evil One" who had come to steal our souls. His goal was to get us to go to him instead of God for everything we wanted or needed. He had done this to other planets, and these aliens were following him to fix the damage he had done, because he had stolen their technology to do it.
I'll never forget his final words. "We will use our science to repair your planet. You will go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be the way it was before Dr. Conrad came here." And I'll never forget what I felt when I heard that. I knew I would no longer be thin, beautiful, healthy, and happy, but I wasn't worried or afraid. I was ecstatically happy.
The earth slept. And woke.
"Oh, God..."
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