The Voice
Night time is a desolate time.
When people retire from the day
and leave the outside alone.
Our minds take us on a walk;
to a place where fear is deafening and the bravery is quiet.
"Being alone and being by yourself are two different things,"
you hear the voice say.
Day time is a lonely time.
When people are lively and socialable,
but inside they're fighting a battle we don't know about.
The illumination hurts your eyes, so your mind shields away the light,
and brings you to a place.
A place that you cannot escape until it's time.
A place where your mind talks to you and speaks only one line:
"Being alone and being by yourself are two different things."
The voice finally stops, and lets your retire for the night,
but your eyes come back into focus
until you see,
that your mind took you to a place that left you vulnerable and open,
a quiet place,
a lonely place;
Fractured Reflections
I remember those beautiful moments of clarity, in the drive back home after a day of school, that sublime serenity, that freedom of thought, that comforting detatchment from all worries and worldly concerns. It was blissful, and invigorating.
And now those moments are gone.
Now all I find in my solitude are those hateful thoughts, those stressful questions in dire need of answers, that mind-numbing emotion and that cloud of confusion. The rides back home are no longer ones of bliss, of content or joy. They are torture, the moments between actions that force my mind to wander, not aimlessly, but listlessly, uncertain.
Who am I anymore? What am I doing? Why am I such a failure of a human being? Why can’t I understand myself anymore? Where did I go? Will I ever find out?
I bite my fingers, and press down. I don’t go as far as to cut through my skin, but I leave marks. Not deep, and not gruesome, but temporary, like my own mood, like my own emotions, like myself. I look out to that once inspiring view, that which used to excite me and give me reason to smile. But it does not look the same. The grass, the sky, the buildings, they are all dull. They are not inspiring, they are gloomy, because I am gloomy. Nothing can look as optimistic as it once did. The scars may fade, but they are not gone. The scenery passes and I am again submerged in my own selfish self-hatred, my own inadequacies, my own loathing.
Why am I so weak? Why am I such a societal failure? I can’t talk with anyone. Not even my best of friends can see my problems. No, they can, they just have their own, and need me to express need in order to show any compassion. They aren’t selfish, they just don’t know. God, I am an idiot. What can’t I do wrong? I will never escape this vicious cycle. I will never amount to anything. I am worthless. My aspirations will only ever be that, aspirations. I am a burden.
I really don’t deserve to exist. I should honestly kill myself.
I play out the scene in my head. Second period, bell rings. Cue the song, some weird cinematic camera angles for my narcissistic side, I pull out the revolver, tap my best friend on the shoulder and my other good friend as well. They turn to see the gun in my mouth, headed for the brain. A true smile, wide and teary-eyed, happily closed eyes, a soft wave, a muffled, “I love you guys.”, and click. Fade to black.
But I can’t, can I. I would only become a bigger burden if that happened. Funeral costs, raising a kid for all that time jus for a suicide, emotional damage to the people that cared, not to mention ruining some shirts and the back wall. Probably get the carpet stained as well. I can’t. What a pain.
I let go a mental maniacally happy laugh.
Life really isn’t fair, is it?
That flurry of comments and feelings rushes back.
“I can respect feeling lonely, feeling worthless, but I can’t respect excuses.”
“I love your wit, your funny comments, your stature as someone I can talk to about the serious things.” I have none of those qualities. No you don’t.
”I don’t think you appreciate your time alone with yourself.” How can I, feeling as I do, making ‘excuses’, being worthless, hating myself?”
“You need to learn to love yourself. And you need to build self-confidence.” Easier said than done. I am nothing worth loving. And a worthless pile of trash will not feel good about itself.
I shake and shudder and get goosebumps along my back and the nape of my neck. And then I get those painful pinprick feelings that hurt and invite uneasiness and shuffling. In an instant the car is burning, and I am sweating, nervous, anxious, and horribly uncomfortable. I bite my hands with a fervor, and it doesn’t help. I shake more and more. This is torture.
I get now what Hamlet meant when he used the term, ‘mortal coil’.
And suddenly we are home. I am home. I am free.
I exit the car, the feelings go away and I rush, rush to my room. I am free.
And yet, I am caged. I am a slave.
I think to myself of what I can do to occupy my mind. To move away from this pain. And I find it. What a painful quarter of an hour. I busy myself.
And I dread the next day.
Grain of Salt
SMACK.
And just like that, I clattered to the floor, my insides spilling out in embarrassing fashion across the cold linoleum. I rolled a bit, teetering back and forth, then fell still.
“What in bloody hell?” I heard a man’s voice grumble. I spotted a wrinkled, jittery hand, reaching down for me, inching closer, closer, closer…
SMACK. A flash of perfectly manicured bright pink fingernails flitted across my field of vision, swatting away the wrinkled hand and swooping my white plastic body up in a single jerky motion.
“Poison, Dad,” said the young woman who was now clutching me with a death grip. She slammed me down on the table between them. “You want another damn heart attack?”
“Grain of salt, sweetheart,” said the white-haired man, his voice playful.
She sighed and shook her head. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Honey.” He reached toward her with his bear paw.
“No,” she said firmly, pulling her fingers away and raising them to her left temple. “I can’t have this conversation again. My head hurts.”
“Eat something,” the man said, gently sliding a bowl of plain oatmeal toward her and accidentally knocking me over with his bulging knuckles.
Lying there on my side, I saw her face. It looked ragged, older than its 20-something years with dark circles around brown eyes, betraying chaos inside.
“Nah, my stomach’s been off,” she said, her face suddenly looking paler. I watched her dark ponytail swish as she turned around and squinted at a clock on the diner's far wall.
“Almost 8:30. Gotta go teach,” she said, jumping up and grabbing a rolled-up yoga mat from under the table.
“Lindsay, doll,” said the man, concern growing in his voice as he beckoned to the dimly lit parking lot. “It’s 8:30 p.m. P.M.”
“Wait, but…” the woman said, trailing off. A nod. “Yes, of course. I taught this morning.”
“You did,” said the man. “Here, take some,” he said, pushing a half-eaten $3.99 diet plate of egg whites and cantaloupe toward her. She sat down slowly, her eyes welling with tears.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me lately,” she said. She didn’t move when her father took her hand this time.
“It’ll be fine,” he said, reaching over to stand me upright and slide me towards her.
That’s when she looked straight at me. And instantly, I knew. Her headache. Nausea. Confusion. It wasn’t something I’d seen much in my days here at the Big Rig Diner in Tallahassee, but there it was written all over her face, plain as day.
Salt deficiency.
She’d been decrying me as poison for years, worrying about her father, perpetually afraid genetics would take her too down the road of diabetes and heart failure.
She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want him to die. And so she had cast me out—to dangerous extremes—imagining that removing me from her life would ward off the inevitable. Now she was wasting away with alarming alacrity.
She stared at me curiously, a realization dawning, then coming into focus: moderation.
“Grain of salt?” her father asked again, pushing me toward her. She smiled weakly.
Shake, shake, shake.
The Squirrel and the Owl
A Squirrel arrived to his home to find a large hole in the side of it. Upon seeing the damages, he began to cry out, “My house is in ruin! No greater catastrophe could have beset me!”
An Owl, seeing the Squirrel’s dilemma, landed beside the damaged house. He saw the small extent of the damage and informed the Squirrel that his house could be fixed.
“My house is in ruin!” the Squirrel continued crying out, and he did not listen to what the Owl had said.
Later that day, a storm hit the forest, sending water through the hole and into the Squirrel’s house. Upon discovering the new damages, the Squirrel cried out, “My house is in ruin!”
The Owl, again, came at the Squirrels cries. “You need only to let the water dry.”
“My house is in ruin!” the Squirrel continued crying out, and he did not listen to what the Owl had said.
The Squirrel shut the doors to his house, allowing the water to soak into all that the Squirrel had, leaving his home in ruins. Upon discovering the new damages, the Squirrel cried out, “My house is in ruin!”
The Owl came once more to the Squirrel’s cries. He saw the great extent of the damage and told the Squirrel that nothing could be done now. The damage was too great.
Listen to advice so that problems will not get worse than they are.
Tick... Tick... Tick.
You happen upon a strange pocket watch. You pick it up, dust it off, and tap it a couple times. It’s ticking normally. You pull the crown and everything around you freezes. You press it back into place and normalcy returns. Amazed, you wind it forward, then backward, and impossibly, the world speeds up, then rewinds. Time is now yours to control.
But it isn't.
not really.
Because time doesn't have rules.
It doesn't make sense.
It doesn't follow patterns.
It doesn't tell you what it means.
Time likes to change its mind.
And sometimes forward means back
and back means forward.
And sometimes start is stop, and stop is start
and the world begins to fall apart
because you were there
but also here
and once this happened, but it changed
you changed
time changed
but time doesn't change
it doesn't follow rules
so it happened and it didn't happened
all at the same time
and time didn't understand
and it didn't like being meddled with.
It didn't want to stop and move,
rewind and move forward,
start, and stop,
up and down, back and forth,
across the timeline of the world
and eventually time grew angry enough
was changed one too many times
by your hand on that strange pocketwatch
and time acts
it fizzles and pops
it goes back to that day
where you first dusted it off
and time changed
and you never picked up a pocketwatch
never dusted it off
never moved back and forth
never stopped
never started
and time went on.
Tick...Tick... Tick.
Constant.
Unchanged.
On and on and on...
Tick... Tick... Tick.
The secret of internal youth
The secret of internal youth? I found it long ago, twinkling in the moonlight, amongst the sunburnt snow. I see the world quite differently, with innocent childlike eyes, no desire for a shiny screen, let me chase the fireflies. No career for me, no fine degree, no house, no car, no home, no Disney land to fence my dreams, across the world I’ll roam.
A pirate ship to take a trip to lands so far away, where fish can fly and mermaids sing as we dance across the bay. To ancient lands with castles tall and a horse for me to ride.We’ll set about upon our quest, with horse and hound besides. An aeroplane for me to fly, across endless skies I soar, A rocket ship and trusty crew the whole galaxy to explore.
this secret of internal youth I’ll gladly share with you
Its in my local library, don't you have one too?
there’s timeless worlds between the pages, go on take a look
You can be forever young inside a library book.
Trial and Error
Bright white. Hazy rays of flourescence flood my vision. The slide of metal. There’s an automatic door on the right side of the room. Something smooth and cold presses into me from below. I look downward. Oh. Feet. Ivory toes resting on the black tiled floor. Footsteps cross the room towards me, and I jerk up to meet the gaze of a man. Short and tan and balding on top with round glasses sitting on the end of his nose. My creator.
“Hello,” he whispers. He stares at me a moment. His eyes are green. He scrunches his face. Something is wrong. He wants something from me. Oh, yes. I’m expected to respond.
“Hello, Creator.”
His face relaxes. A positive reaction. I’ve done well. He reaches forward, and I feel warmth somewhere new. I have an arm. His hand gently squeezes my shoulder. It’s close enough now to smell. An odor of lemongrass. I see a stain on his sleeve. Tea.
“Do you know your name?”
My name. My name. Yes. I have one.
“Dee. You call me Dee.”
He smiles this time. He is pleased. My answer is satisfactory. My creator steps back.
“Very good, Dee. Come with me.”
I stand. I feel the metal within me. My synthetic musculature expanding and contracting. I watch as my creator walks. I mimic the rhythm. One foot, then the other. At this speed, air rushes past me, brushing my body. He leads me through a corridor. At the end, I see a door. It’s much taller than my creator or myself. I run my fingertips over the steel. There’s clanking on the other side. My processors respond negatively to the sound. The door slides open, and there is only dark on the other side. Even with my heightened sight, I am unable to see past the shadow. My creator makes a gesture with his arm and hand. It is a signal. He wants me to step through. Without the obstruction of the door, the clanking is much louder. It echoes off the walls.
“No.”
My creator drops his arm to his side.
“What do you mean?”
“I will not go there.”
My creator grows tense. My response is undesired. He wants cooperation. I want... Not the place beyond the door. I turn from him and push my legs forward. Faster and faster. The corridor blurs around me. In front of me, I see light. Not like the lights from the room. This light is orange. There is something. I search for the word. Natural. Yes, there is something natural about it. It is a large window. The light comes from a circle outside. The sun. Behind me, I hear my creator calling out. Not for me, but for aid. I was not supposed to run. I step back. I leap forward. The glass breaks around me. The air is forceful against my body. Much more than when I walked. There is something below me. A straight line of gray. A sidewalk. It gets closer and closer and closer until...
Dr. Pharris scrubs a hand down his face as his assistant, Evan, rushes over to him. Dusk is settling in, and they really need to get this mess cleaned up before there isn’t enough light to see. Evan’s eyes are panicked, and he gasps when he sees the remains in front of his boss.
“Dr. Pharris! What happened!?”
“The D99 model must have malfunctioned.”
“Malfunctioned? How?”
Dr. Pharris groans. He grabs Evan by the collar of his shirt roughly.
“She jumped out of a fourth story window, you idiot! That’s how!” He releases the young man with a sigh. “Call the team. I want to salvage as many parts as we can. Anything that can be fixed or rebuilt, so we can use it on the next model.” He looks down and nudges a synthetic calf with the front of his shoe. “Really thought she’d be the one.”
Where is It?
I am awake. I hear breathing, a rustling, and rapid heart beats. I scent odors of perspiration, colognes, and perfumes. I feel cold tile beneath my bare feet. I feel electric signals coursing throughout my frame. I sense a fluid traveling the tubing of my structure.
Lastly, my eyes open processing a large water filled fish tank. I begin processing a new, but primitive sensation. I have sufficient data to ascertain the primitive sensation and to create an inquiry, however I lack sufficient data to alleviate the sensation. My inquiry created imagery. I turn to my baguette, Dr. Genesis, I inquire, "Where's the John?"
Turning Point
//:Wake Code [1935883]
//:Initiating System Boot Sequences…
40%
82%
//:Critical System Boot Failure
//:Rebooting…
I snapped to as information flooded my new mind. Numbers, command strings, and code raced across my consciousness, through my subconscious, and bombarded my processing centers.
My eyes remained closed, but I still…felt. It felt so foreign. What did that mean? And how…? My neural processors kicked in, reminding me of who I was.
I was an AI, the first of its kind. Intelligent Programming, they liked to call it. Up until this point, AIs had simply mimicked intelligence, becoming only as “smart” as the programmers made it.
But now, all that had changed. With the onset of war, I had become the first and only truly self-aware Artificial Intelligence. But did I have a form? Or did I inhabit some flat data disk plugged into a star ship’s computer?
Sensors informed me that I was Humanoid in form, strong, able, and very definitely built for war. My arms hid various blades and laser weapons, my legs containing only blades and thrusters, the trunk of my body containing my heart and soul.
I was covered in armor, and looked very much like…an exo-suit. My head was bent down, chin almost touching my metal chest.
I straightened my metal spine, instantly becoming addicted to the mechanical sounds of my own movement. Raising my head, I opened my eyes beneath a metal mask, finding myself staring through its eye openings.
At my will, the mask transformed, retracting and revealing my face. I looked down, my eyes tracing multitudes of wires that ran from the floor, walls, and ceilings and hooked into various ports on my cybernetic body.
The encyclopedia knowledge I possess informed me that the wires and tubes are responsible for the creation of my synthetic neural system, circulatory system, (which carries coolant to the processors, hard drives, etc., as well lubricant) and my partial muscular system. No longer needed, I instruct them to disengage. Ports snap shut and disappear as the living metal that I am mostly constructed of removes them.
My eyes scan the twilight darkness of the room, looking for the ones who have awoken me.
//:No Life Signs Detected
//:Re-Scan Initiated
//:No Life Signs Detected
Directing my psionic abilities, I hack the door’s lock and force it to open. Having a partial synthetic brain grants me ultrapathic abilities. My mind is still processing as I step into a long corridor.
Data feeds on holograms scroll from wall to wall of the long, bluish-white hallway. Numbers, symbols, programming, sub-routines, non-descript lines of code.
I pass through the translucent holograms, walking for 3.48 minutes before reaching the other end. It ’T’s, and the floor plan in my head directs me to the left. There is an exit nearby, it states. First, I must pass through the Bridge.
Bridge…Bridge?!
I’m on a star ship, I realize.
//:Possible Hostiles Detected. Defense Systems on Line
//:Sensors Impaired. Anti-Jammer Sequence Initiated
The message flashes briefly across my vision as my body swiftly reacts, forming a defensive posture, arm blades extended. I reach the Bridge only to find it painted red in the blood of the dead. Destruction is everywhere, but I can feel that the ship’s mainframe is still intact.
It must have awakened me as a last effort to save the ship…I was born too late to help.
I pass through the carnage, only to be greeted by more as I make my way to the far end of the ship. The door is jammed and, after yanking it from its attachments, I see why.
Bodies are piled almost to the ceiling, all of them stiff, obviously dead for a while. Laser weapons deploy from my arms and blast the dead bodies. The pile flies toward the ripped-open air lock, expelled out into the impact crater of the ship.
A dull roar is building in the distance as I step outside amid the pile of the dead, my eyes focusing on an impossibly far away object. I see it as though it is right in front of me, and I recognize it. Now know what my purpose is—
I am on the home world of the Na’Shaarii people, located in the Adjeera solar system. The planet is locked in a deadly civil war, fought more heavily here than in its nearby colonies. In fact, aside from this sol system, the fighting is light and limited.
I have been built to be the savior of the Separatists, Purists, and Activists, known also as the Triple Faction. The Royals are my enemies, or so I am told.
Right now, others have spotted the downed ship and me, as troop carriers begin to draw closer and land. Currently located in one of the multiple Dead Zones between the opposing front lines, I see ruined, smoldering cities looming like the hideous skeletal hands of some monster rising on either side.
All around me, dead bodies litter the desert wasteland, their blood crying to me from the ground, others’ bones bleached white in the scorching glare of the Adjeera’s double sun. I scan through my information on this war, realizing that, from an objective standpoint, both sides are equally guilty.
No one side is right. Billions of Na’Shaarii have already been killed, and many more will follow. There has been no end in sight to this war, and it has already gone on for over twenty-three years.
Today should have been the turning point to the war. The Triple Faction should now have the edge they need to defeat the Royals.
But today will be different. I have been given unimaginable power by my creators, and only I can end this useless war.
The militaries of both sides must be eliminated, and the home world must fall. I will be their reckoning, their judge, their executioner. I will be the Dark Shadow, the Assassin, the Storm. The Guilty will flee from before me, but the Innocent will find peace and protection in my presence.
Transports begin to land as I summon my weapon systems.
No one could have predicted this.
The First Vision
I come from a place very far from your cave dwelling. We discovered you were the first to see the world and had the thought to describe it. I don’t know if you’ll be able to say much, but I’d like to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?
“Ugha”
Great. This is fantastic dwelling you have here. Quite comfortable. Tell me, what is your name?
“Uga He’pa.”
Nice to met you He’pa. I see you have some artwork on your walls here. Why did you want to depict this scene on your cave wall?
“He’pa see man, animal. Want to make life like I see.”
It’s amazing Hepa. What does the art mean to you?
“Hepa have see many Suns. Long days with Kabata. Long days watching animal. In cave I see what in my head. Battle of ox. I want to see again.”
Extaordinary. Do you see many men in your tribe doing this?
“Kabatas see painting. I tell him to make. He have no want. Ask why. No want. Only ox.”
Do you think many more men will paint images like this?
“Many day go by. Quiet. We travel. We hunt. Kabatas strong together. I show what I see of Kabata. Kabatas never see what I see.
You have demonstrated subjectivity He’pa . The first recorded instance, I believe.
“Ugha”
I’m part of a time where we have many paintings He’pa . I want to thank you for showing me your art. But I must leave as I cannot stay long. I hope you continue to show what being human means.
“Hepa want you paint. What you see?”
Okay.
I grabbed a rock and drew on the slate we were sitting on. A circle and what looked like continents. This is home He’pa. This is where we are. This is Earth. I pointed to the sky and made a round gesture with my arms.
He looked at it. Looked closer. Moved his finger around the chalk. And stood. I looked up at him. He walked over to some rubble. Picked up a large rock and walked back to me.
He handed me the rock.
“Home?”
Yes He’pa. Home.