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.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
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
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