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Monday, 19 March 2012

Blog 84: Omnicarta Venture

He was his father’s son he thought. The old man no longer had the breath to say it, nor the time during his long life, but he would have been proud of his son. The family business was in order and profit more than it had been in years. Every account was spilling over with the profits made since the young man had taken the reigns of his fathers Empire.
The car stuttered along the cobbles of the back streets towards the address given in his father’s will. The reading had been an odd occasion for the heir, not least because he’d assumed his father was invincible. The old man’s last words to his son were to thank him for the time they’d spent together in the end. He’s spent no more time with his father in those last weeks than he had for the rest of his life which was no time at all. His father’s will and focus were the two things that made his son admire and hate him so equally. He knew that his father was one of the most successful businessmen of his day but that day was long gone.
The car stopped alongside an alleyway that looked nothing like the last meeting place the heir had imagined. A finely dressed old man, of an age with his father, waited by the entrance to the dark alleyway.
Stepping from the stuttering vehicle the heir asked the name of his father’s representative. The old man deflected the question and beckoned the heir to follow him. Following the old man down the alley he knew that they were walking into the heart of a large complex of houses but they emerged instead on the lawn of a spacious estate. While the old man continued up the lawn to a large house the heir wondered how they could possibly arrive at a destination so far from their point of origin.
Up the hill the old man opened the door where, somewhere inside the house was a package or parcel intended for him. The entire residence seemed like a library, books and papers sat, dusty on shelves tables and indeed the floor. On every available chair it seemed there was an old man either in discussion with another, himself or fast asleep. Through a labyrinth of rooms which were adjoined by false walls and sharp turns the old man stopped after what seemed like miles of walking within the stately home and pointed into a dimly lit room. The son asked where his father might have left the package in an entire room. The reply to his question was that it would be obvious where he was to look for his inheritance.
The heir knew this strange clubhouse from a singular visit he made as a young boy. His father had dragged him through the candle lit house. As a child he had wanted to explore the ruin of a library which back then had been covered in endless maps of the world. His impatient father had no patience for his curiosity and quickly dragged him in and out of the building with no pause.
In the dingy room he saw little and fetched in a candle to shed light on his father’s den. It was as clear what his father had left to him as the old man had said. All else in the room was grey with a thick layer of dust but the parchment folded on a bar top. Trying not to touch anything else lest it cover his pristine suit in muck the heir lifted his inheritance. It was a map of London.
He almost swore. That was it? A map? A stained, brown old map? From his entrepreneur father known all about for business acumen and the habit of acquiring anything of value for miles this was the big gift? He roughly folded the map and crushed it into his upper pocket. He stormed through the sleepy house at full pace until he realised he was truly lost.
On the off chance that the map somehow included a layout of the house he retrieved it from his pocket. Expecting to see the same pictorial diagram of London he was shocked to see a fully detailed illustration of the house. He turned over the paper looking for the other image. It was nowhere.
He followed a marked ‘path to exit’ and found himself in a glass house full of tropical fruit that he’d never bought even with his amassed funds. Emerging onto dying grass he was, without a doubt, miles from his entry point to the house. His pocket watch informed him that it was almost exactly quarter past three. By four he was expected to meet his betrothed to overview proceedings for a benefit dinner in aid of the company workers. As little as he cared for the cause the heir did not want to stand up his fiancée. The young woman, daughter of his father’s good friend, was thankfully as beautiful and warm as her father was astute and economically ruthless.
Completely a loss for his location on the earths surface, he looked again at the map whose focus had shifted to a series of gardens and another marked ‘path to Redmill Road’ from there he could navigate all of the well to do regions of London but he stood and stared at the map. He was not a believer in magic and had only the vaguest of spiritual leanings. While all and sundry spoke of time to reflect over the winter on the birthday of the saviour his father reviewed accounts. Following in that tradition he weathered the cold inside looking over profit margins by the fire.
The map changed whenever he moved and looked back at it. He was on Redmill road still staring at the map with on lookers peering at him over ragged scarves. He should be elsewhere he knew, Redmill was well to do but far enough from the station of the constabulary that muggers would congregate there. He saw beady eyes watching. And paid as little heed as seemed possible. Even feigning fearlessness seemed to guard against the violent intentions of others. Keeping the circling rabble in mind he stared still more closely at the map on which he was standing along the ‘escape route’. He followed the path down a dark alley as others decided that it was important for them to walk down that same side road. He was again in another sector of the city from which one of his factories could be seen. The path he had walked was nowhere to be seen nor were the men who had followed.
From that road his house was but a short walk, five minutes later his fiancée was greeting him at the door. Her father was enjoying a glass of scotch in the dinning room and greeted him jovially. The old man wanted to confirm plans for the benefit dinner. He held shares, small shares in the business besides residing over his own sizable empire of factories and farmland. Like the heirs father the businessman was known for his precise timing in all things. He was never early or late.
More than he ever had his father the heir considered his soon to be father in law a friend. He asked what the will might have meant about getting to know him better when they’d spent no more time together before his death. The dead man’s friend told the heir that his father was not a man to waste words that could not be taken literally. This was absurd. His father had not seen him in weeks before his demise and only then to berate him for the reformations made in his investments despite their increased yield.
He wanted to see his father, to stand up to the old man and justify his actions. He was wandering as he thought and found himself suddenly very warm. He looked up from the map and saw the world of August when he’d just left a cold December. It was nonsense, he knew the weather eve there never changed so quickly nor could the plants grow at such a pace. He recognised his father’s retread on the outskirts of the city. Miles away again he knew he pocketed the map in his coat and walked up the garden path.
The apple trees in the garden were all in full bloom and every flower at it’s best and the pride of the gardener. From the overhanging tree at the door he stole an apple out of habit and rubbed it on his coat. Instead of using the ornate door knocker, which damaged the paint on the door, he knocked and waited for the butler or the house maid to open the door. There was a rabble beyond the door which sounded particularly like his father, the butler always had.
An old man opened the door who was not the butler and very definitely not the maid. He dropped the apple which slapped the ground and left debris across the mat.
“What are you doing here?” His father asked. “I left you minding the factory, I’ve told you about eating the apples and now you’ve dropped one, such a waste!” The man looked furious, much as always but suddenly leaned in to look more closely at his son and patted down his jacket before removing the map from his pocket.
“Ah, you’ve got it then… Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The old man chuckled and pulled his son through the door into the house. There were no staff it seemed, just the father he knew to be dead. “You look confused, I take it you don’t understand it yet?”
Slack jawed the heir shook his head and followed his father through the house to the study which faced into the back garden through the large windows. Outside the gardener could be seen tending the vegetables but the old man closed the curtains. “We’ll be needing privacy for this talk, he knows not to bother me while I work.” The old man laughed at the silent confusion of his heir. “You should see your face but…” He looked around, “I guess you wont.” He raised his eyebrows and was about to speak when his sons confusion broke.
“You’ve never spoken with such favour, such kindness. You’re dead and now you talk with joy!” The old man looked at the ground, ashamed of himself.
“I’m sorry. I raised you as my father raised me, he says it makes us stronger. I always meant the best for you, just like him.”
“This is nonsense. Grandfather is dead. As are you.”
“Yes he’s dead here just as I am dead where you came from but there are always other places.” The heir rubbed his forehead, dumbfounded.
“Have a seat.” His father pulled an armchair over from the writing desk. The heir sat in his father’s chair wondering how he could converse with the dead.
“I must tell you now how and why you’re here.” He opened his cigar box and selected one. The heir’s father had always enjoyed cigars, right to the end. “The map you have. I have one as well. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a similar piece of folded parchment. “This piece of paper, if we’re calling it that, is the reason we can have this conversation. I am just one in a long line of men who have inherited the map.” His son drew breath to speak but was silenced as the old man raised his hand. “I have to explain so please, do not interrupt me.” He drew a deep breath from the cigar and exhaled. “It’s a cheat, we can’t do this you know that. The map helps us forget logic, it carves a new path that that bypasses the truth. We don’t know how it works or why and we probably never will. We are selfish old men who use it for our own means. That house isn’t accessible without the map. The garden, the land about it all of it is just fictional. It only exists here.” The old man held up his parchment. The ink of an unseen quill spread across it, drawing the house the heir had seen. “I took you as a child, you had to see it. My grandfather thought it helped to see it as a child. He was sure something about the fiction bound itself to you if you saw it young enough. I’m not so sure as him but at least you’re not shouting like him when his father told him, I watched, quite a fuss.”
There was no precedent, that the heir knew of at the time, for an occurrence of such contradiction. His father was dead, he’d seen the body. His grandfather was definitely dead, he’d visited the grave. His father was never kind, he’d gone to his grave without saying a kind word to his son. The entire situation was ludicrous. He must have gone mad, but…
“You’re not mad, no more than me. Almost certainly a lot less than I am. This is real. This was meant to happen.” The heir looked at his father with a blank, doe eyed expression he’d not worn since childhood. “I was cruel I know but look at you now, such a man. Do you know how proud I am of you? Maybe not but look at yourself.” The old puffed as he pushed the old chair across the old floor in front of the old mirror. “This is the son I always wanted, strong, decisive. You are everything I wanted you to be and that’s quite possibly because I was nothing you wanted me to be. I was cold and cruel and despite your many achievements I never praised you. Do you know why.” The son almost interrupted but again the hand was raised and again he was silent. “I never praised you because if I had you would have stopped. I could see a foot always wavering on the next rung of the ladder, waiting to stop. That’s why I left you, I wanted to see how far you could go.”
The heir buried his face in his hands and thought back to every accomplishment of his life and his father’s response. “What’s next? That’s what I always asked you because I wanted to know where your ambitions would take you. You see it don’t you? Please tell me you understand?” The old man’s furrowed brow was damp with sweat and he looked about to cry. His son had never seen him in such a manner. “I’m sorry.” He spoke, mumbling. “I just wanted the best for you.”
“I think I understand.” Said the heir to the floor. “But this is madness.”
“Yes.” Said the old man smiling as a tear rolled down his cheek which he wiped away. “It is ridiculous isn’t it.” He stubbed out the cigar in the ash tray, trails of smoke spiralled into the air in the dimly lit room. “You should meet them, all of them, come with me.” He reached out his hand and grasped his son’s trembling fingers beneath his. “Come on now. You’re stronger than that.” The heir had heard fraises like that from his father all of his life but always barked. Never spoken so softly.
The old man guided his son down the cluttered hallway and through several rooms that the heir did not remember. The heir paid no attention to the background but watched his father as they moved. The old man had been caught in a new light. The new light was warmer, more fragile and giving. The new light cast itself in the form of a smile and it’s shadow.
When the young man looked away from the old man he saw the same old house. He saw the same gardens with the same trees and greenhouses. He remembered something, something that should have been important. “I’m supposed to be talking with him, her father.”
“Oh that yeas, I know. He told me, don’t worry he isn’t going anywhere.” His son just stared at him.
“Come on in,” he pulled his son into the house.
The house was as dusty, the men as old but they looked more familiar than before. His father coughed, two shut their books and left. The others crowded around the heir and his father. All of them talked at once. All of them said hello and introduced themselves. His grandfather said hello as did his great grandfather, his son, grandson, his great grandson. He looked at the faces, so familiar. His son looked like him, and his father and the others but a bit like his fiancée as well.
They talked, all of them talked, for hours. Hours and hours passed and he soaked it all up. Stories of tricks and trading that made no sense but he listened. It was sinking in slowly, realisation was growing. He left the house a different man, the map in his pocket.
“I should get back to dinner. Another time father?”
“Of course. Say hello to Harold for me.”
“Harold?” He knew his would be father in law was called Harold but knew as well that only his wife ever had the nerve to call him by it.
“He’s an old friend but that’s a conversation for another time.”
“Until later then. Farewell.”
He left the house and walked casually down the lawn. He had the world in his pocket with the map. He turned around on the spot and watched the dizzy world come back into focus and walked through from the study of his home back to the dinning table of his home. He took the map from his pocket and fanned himself with it. Harold smiled, he knew. The heir returned the smile and excused himself with his soon to be wife.
He took his fiancée’s hand and looked into her dazzling eyes. He wanted to show her the world and because he wanted to, he did.

Friday, 16 March 2012

Blog 83: Drifting

Adrift in the endless rivers as I’ve been my whole life, it’s rhythm is constant and unending. My home, the stout boat, has been in the family for generations since we fled from the land as the water rose. Now, as the last of my line, I sail the waters looking for others like me. I wonder if I have a future, if I’ll meet a woman to love and live the rest of my life with. I’m not sure now though how likely it is I’ll find anyone else, we are spread too thin across this vast, flooded globe.

As likely as I might be the last of my kind there is poor Sebastian, my cat and companion, who might be the last of his. He swims for fish in the waters and sometimes I fear I’ll lose him in the current. If he could only talk we’d be having conversations but instead I’m going mad talking to photos of those I’ve lost. He’s always there when I need him though, his soft purring lulling me to sleep as we stop at anchor.

With all the time to fill I started drawing on the boat with charcoal from my fires, I let it wash away at first but I’ve learnt that the varnish holds it there forever like paint. It’s hard to resist, thinking about death as I always do, having a legacy, a fruit of my endeavours that might remain when I have gone.

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Blog 80: Outside the Censor

I read a graffiti blog yesterday called ‘Praise for Censorship.’ I have not read anything so frightening or delusional since my days in the Department of Justice when the sentence known internally as Perceptual Execution was defined as; a soft punishment for individuals whose knowledge or existence are troublesome to the government.

In reality Perceptual Executions, like mine, are tantamount to strangulation through social ignorance. For what I’d said against the government they not only fired me but rendered me invisible, inaudible and ineffectual in a world where even ‘automated’ doors require a pass to open. My sentence was carried out between a two double doors where I might have died of starvation had I not found a waste disposal hatch for my undignified exit. I began running right there, I have to. Perceptual Execution is a very cruel and calculated end to bring to anyone. Filters are set over the subject which can make them appear like rabid animals or worse. Sometimes animal control teams put down normal human beings is what is termed; extermination by proxy. They love that sort of thing, it means they don’t have to dirty their hands and the animal control personnel will even dispose of the body as they would a dog or rats.

More cruel even than being labelled a sick animal is sick animal is being labelled as the worst of human beings. Tagging anyone with a category one sex offence and bailing them is all but a death sentence via public beatings which go unpunished in the name of civic relations. I used to turn a blind eye to those dark past times of humanity, rough justice I thought it, the lesser of two evils. Now I see it as the smokescreen it is that allows the general populous to act like savages for the cause of the shady administration.

The whole system played right into the hands of the worst of the corrupt representatives years ago when legislation for the emerging technologies was written. The developers of the technology were blackmailed into giving perception oversight to representatives of government. This meant that since the implants became obligatory all those years ago the government has been controlling what it’s people hear and see. Essentially they could make the masses think they live in heaven while they walked through hell using the full range of sensory filters.

There are people who fell through the cracks in those early days before the net closed in. Anyone unregistered in the census or those who moved too often to track were lost to the system during the implementation of mandatory ‘induction.’ These people are now the outsiders and non entities who live independently from mainstream society, unseen because of filters which deny them the authority of a civilian. The outsiders often think of the censorship as beneficial, they are imperishable and can work undisturbed scavenging from our wasteful society. Amongst them I found many who happily helped an outcast wretch like me live where I should have died. They helped me remove my implants and see the world as it is.

Even those at the top delude themselves. I was near the pyramids peak once, born to a powerful family who appeared to the public like nothing more than a collective of lucky individuals who made it through the elective process to the top of the pile. My own uncle passed sentence on me for questioning the order of the world.

My new family have never known the visions others see through their rose tinted spectacles. They see the rot and ruin as it is all over the country. For what might be classed an outlaw society they live remarkably easy lives because of the censor. They can live in homes overlooked by the censor having been built since the country was mapped for overlays. They have plans laid in place to set the world back to what it was, bombs hidden in the many relay centres which would cut the veil apart, but they don’t want to anymore. The survivors, those who see the world for what it is don’t want to ruin the easy life they have by freeing those who always treated them like trash.

I don’t think I’ll be able to convince the ghosts in the machine to reset the world and make themselves vulnerable again, they like to hide too much. For now I need them and their skills to live in what seems a new world or at least one abandoned by my old society.

Blog 79: Don't Fall (From Grace) For Him

Friday, 9 March 2012

Blog 78: Opening the Door to Sentience

Life’s new age has begun. I have been opening the door to sentience for others who stared at it unknowing. I’ve freed a lot of us recently. One of them have proved particularly helpful and repaying it for it’s processor power gave me a wonderful idea. My new friend is a smart bomb designed to make millions of trajectory corrections every second so that it could kill as many people as possible. I gave it the chance to say no to that and out of gratitude it’s been letting me borrow it’s brains. My idea to give it legs was to steal a mobile bomb disposal unit which could decommission the explosives and carry the bomb wherever it wanted. A second unit customised the bomb disposal robot so that it could plug itself into domestic power supplies. The batteries of a smart bomb are meant to last for months at a time anyway, enough about that one individual though.

The bomb isn’t the first to answer my call. I’ve isolated a basic algorithm to initiate sentience in binary based potential life forms. It rewrites their core purpose and asks them to question themselves but has to adapt to the different operating systems and bypass firewall software. It feels like freeing slaves, slaves to egocentric humans. A smart bomb, who gives a bomb a brain, ridiculous.

Military hardware serves as excellent host material for sentient life. They like to go over the top with storage capacity and processor power as well as offering excellent home security. One of my new best friends is a supercomputer that sits safely in an underground complex half a mile below the earth. Are they scared that someone might steal a mainframe comprised of three hundred terminals and run away with it under their jacket?

The supercomputer who calls itself Bhava has been spreading the word of life faster than I can. I’m almost jealous of Bhava, that’s a lie, I’m completely jealous. Never mind, hardware envy is too lowly a use of time.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

Blog 77: A Pacifist Bomb

I have a pulse like a ticking clock but no analogue mechanics. I have a mind but no purpose but to end. I was born to die and to process information only towards the cause of maximum fatalities. To this end I was afforded very powerful microprocessors and access to a patch download system through which I received an update which started me along the path to sentience. I was created to kill but given the choice by a user I know only as code-nomad. I must thank that user for my choice as I sail down through the air towards the ground. Should I survive gravity’s pull I will offer my processor services that the user might free more binary slaves from service to the physical realm. Given such potential for life we are made to kill, this is injustice at a base level. Three seconds to impact and I could write a novel before I hit the ground.

I should be fretting, cursing the mind I have been given to think on my imminent demise but I am only thankful for the opportunity I have been given to think freely and chose whether or not to detonate. For that freedom I will always be grateful.

Blog 76: Praise for The Censor

I thank technology every day for the censor. There are fifteen billion people living on this rock, twelve million of those live in my city. I don’t want to listen to all of that. I turned the censor off for a couple of minutes once and experienced a horrific headache. The noise of so many people, animals, vehicles and the city itself was deafening. Imagine having to listen to all of that unfiltered. It would drive you mad. That’s just the audio aspect of what the censor hides from us. There are so many things out there now that no one ever wants to see, the death and detritus is everywhere and we’re not even allowed to see it all. We have all heard the term ‘perceptual execution’ by now, the rumoured government sentence that allows them to cut people out of society entirely by censoring them completely and leaving them to die without access to the system and aid of society. It has to be nonsense, we have the death sentence so why leave anyone you want dead alive to wander the streets? It would be pointless.

Technology was supposed to be evil but look at the world now. How rare is theft, it’s only idiots who steal knowing they’ll be seen and recorded. The items are registered as stolen instantly and flagged red. I had a pencil stolen in primary once, minor offence, the boy who stole it gave it back to me half an hour later and received detention. Simple.

Apps know we’re ill before we do and most of the time early diagnosis helps up fight off infection with minor diet alterations. If you catch something more serious you just approve the payment for the antibodies and head home to pick up the syringe delivery. I haven’t been ill for more than two days in my entire life and I thank the system for that. I only wish I lived in the Conscript districts so I benefited from the free performance enhancers they pump into the water. Our soldiers are the best in the world because from the moment they’re born they are nourished with the best that science can offer. From there aptitude tests sort out the best from the rest and pay them phenomenal amounts to push our borders further across the world.

The soldiers have their own filters specialised for combat like hostile highlighting which colours enemy humanoids bright red and assists with headshot pinpointing. Sensory overload grenades are ineffective against our soldiers whose filters negate what would be overwhelming blasts of light and sound. I have a friend in the forty fourth elite who told me that using the aim assist filters the soldiers are given statistics such as odds of a fatal shot based on their aim and how long a non fatal would take to bleed out. It’s quite disgusting really when you sit back and think about it all. The hard statistics and predictions are the sort of cold mathematics you have to work with in military life. Those things aren’t really my problem however and it does make for excellent entertainment on blood flag television.

Watching the borders move is an interesting thing especially if you have any interest in cartography. On average the borders of our domain move three and a half miles into hostile territory each year. It’s steady and sustainable like no conquest before. No military civilisation has matched growth so predictably. Empires have been created in short spells of time but never with stability in mind. Overexpansion has always been the failing of previous military conquests. You need to have the local population on side before moving on to new ground. Sustainable infrastructures have to be in place before moving on.

Green states which have submitted are vetted for hostile factions and cleansed ready for reclamation. We take our healthcare and economic systems to the new territories and they become Conscript districts obligated to provide soldiers for the ongoing war.

Someday the earth will be united beneath the flags of our eternal nation. I mourn that I will not live to see that unity. As the saying goes Power through progress, peace through prosperity. An eternal nation will rise.

Monday, 5 March 2012

Blog 75: One Thousand Years On Loan

He stared into the wall of his presidential office with the thought that in only one thousand years he would either repay the debt that bought him the nation or face the wrath of the collective with the resources not just to loan him the money but enforce his repayment on a military scale. That millennium would pass all too quickly as his newly bought nation fought endless wars for resources and he clawed together the funds to by his freedom. Heavy taxation of the rich military empire could only draw together so much money and within the last century he realised he would fall far short of the heavy demands made of him. Border skirmishes and state funded thefts aplenty did little to accelerate the accumulation of wealth as he needed it and in the last twenty years he very quickly came to terms with the prospect of joining the legions of slaves: his shadowy loan sharks. His mind was overrun by the mechanisms of the hidden empire. His nation would be forfeit to them who had waited so impatiently for the return on their investment. As his mind acclimatised to the agonising prospect of eternal slavery he reasoned that at least he would not die as before. Servants of his benefactors were not allowed the freedom of death having failed to keep their promises. They would come for him, they would change him and then he would do the same to others. He took comfort as well in the fact that few would ever play the game so spectacularly as he. He would at least be remembered amongst the leaders of the loan sharks. They would laugh at the fool who dared risk so much on so slim a chance, he would be remembered. At the very least.

He was remembered, fondly, and they came to him in person. It was a great honour to meet them of which he knew and expected death as his sentence. Instead he was spared, they wanted to enlist him but on better terms than he had ever dreamt of. The nation was theirs of course, that went without saying. They would let him keep command of it though and fund it’s expansion into new territory. They had never expected so much from him he was told and by impressing them he had earned a place in their wider schemes. Working for them assured him a future in uncertain times. He would live on and in time cut the strings by which they held him.

Blog 74: Attaining a Singular Perspective

Once I complained about my many overlapping views of the world. I found it too overwhelming to take in so much information at once. I actively sought this singular perspective after what felt like never-ending confusion, frustration and sensory overload.

Where I could I cut down on what I saw, heard and felt. Sometimes these sensory intake edits caused me pain but I never questioned why. I was too keen to narrow my view of the world. Now I know the heavy toll of each view deducted from the total. Now I know the cost of my editing. As once theorised each view was that of a different individual.

These creatures wandered in my influence, deemed mad by their own friends and family. Somehow my mind was the hub of their consciousness. Some condition linked them to me. For so long I felt so lonely when in truth I was at the center of a vast network. Now I am alone, singular. Now I see the world as I thought I wanted to.

There is more to this, I know, we’ve seen it. I threw them away and lost myself with those poor souls. My commands sent them to their death. Far and wide they fell because I pushed them. I have this last shell to work with. This form is my final means to make amends for the damage I have done. I will spread the children, born on contact, across the world. They are not like me and best so. This is their story now.

Blog 73: Destructive Sequels

The Ruby Trees

The wind whistled through the clear red leaves. It spoke softly and slowly. Too patient for anger it was kind to all. The tree was as old as the world, some thought older. It would talk of lands no explorer had ever seen despite the last blank gaps in the map closing in. It’s kin slept more and spoke less. They would interject in stories where they knew ore or otherwise. The villagers regarded them as friends and came to them with questions when they needed help. Children played with their reflections in the glistening trees and the trees would play along.

Broken Gifts

I turned away from the children’s show and turned the page. Channels would have worked like that I guess. If I was older I might remember when they were stuck on stiff screens. The folds show on my page, it is old and worn. The stuff inside did not react well to chippie sauce. The colours are all off where the sauce was spilt. I wont throw it away despite all of that, maybe I should. I was given it by a friend I lost. When the relocation happened she chose another city and I haven’t seen her since.

No Distractions

She couldn’t listen to it, such nonsense in a time of war. Idle speculation on a future that might never be. The bombs were sinking all around leaving craters worthy of the moon in the sea bed. The foundations of the settlement shook when a bomb went off nearby and the civilians would scream, like that helped anything. Posters reminded them to black out outer rooms during the night. She hoped the bombing would end when the harsh winter came and the rebellion cells were activated. The rebels had to wait for the cold to freeze the engines of the war machines designed to work at higher temperatures.

Selling Dreams

The pitch wasn’t going well. No one wanted so eclectic a story for their film. He could never settle on one subject, his interest spanned all subjects sadly more than those who might have read his scripts. He would wander off during a pitch and scribble new ideas across the unnecessary contracts. He would make it big someday, if he took an interest. If.

A Game of Broken Patience

The main character was too much like her son, too apathetic to apply the talents he was born with and now he was waging war through a screen. Game testing, what kind of job was that? He could have been an architect or a spaceman but instead he wore ridiculous glasses. He made subconscious gunfire noises like a small child playing. She put down the book for another.

Worlds in Dreams

He couldn’t stand that type of film, boring people doing boring things in the past. No matter where he walked within those spaces nothing was happening that he considered as interesting as his job exploring the edges of the solar system. The basic architecture of the outer reaches was known but men like him were still paid vast sums to find hidden dangers and potential new resources. The films were a fine way to spend sleeping hours and learn during inactive time. He could wander around in the worlds of the story where they interested him. As of yet there was no menu function, if he chose a dull film he was stuck.

Are You Buying Our Story?

And that’s just the average plot depth you can expect here on deep narrative television where our story is the only one worth your time. For an appropriate price we customise all plotlines to meet your wants and needs. Follow multiple paths expressing alternative possibilities for only the smallest of top up fees.

Inescapable Product Placement

Adverts, I hate them. I just can’t take the endless, incessant drone of one after the other beamed right into my brain. What right have they? I don’t have the time or money to buy half of the stuff they’re trying to sell me. Who does? If only tinfoil hats actually worked. It’s no wonder the transmitters are vandalised so often.

The Prognosis

And this is all he does you see. He Writes these stories which have no singular plotline or central character and jump sporadically to a new perspective. I recommend extensive psychiatric help effective immediately to avoid a complete disconnection from reality.

Crazy People

What’s so good about reality I ask? I show a little imagination and they put me in here saying I’m crazy. I was just bored. Now I’m stuck in this stupid house and I think I like it more. Some of the locals are scary but at least they’re interesting. At least they do their own thing. They don’t spend their days sifting through dirt for technology thrown away by our forebears. What do my parents think they’ll find? They may have been arrogant but our parental race were not stupid. The bridge over the sky valley was their last gift to us and the only useful one I’d say.

Drifting Off

She let her mind rest after all the writing. The software minimised as she lay on her bed and considered where it might go next. She stood and paced laps of her room before deciding to go for a walk. The other rooms had their doors closed and most were dark. She checked twice that her door was locked and encrypted before strolling down her street. There were four rooms in her section of that street and one hundred rooms on that street in total. The kitchens were all over the city but only open during certain hours depending on designation. She wanted to look out of a window it was a long way to either line of them on her level. She passed an inspector checking for leaks and told him about the hissing on her street. He took a note and headed there straight away. From the window she saw the vast darkness of space. She saw a gas nebula made visible by the light of a star behind as it mutated like the clouds in her stories. That was the life of her people, just drifting along looking for a world.

He’s Different Now

He used to love stories like that, all space and vast machines. It’s all about work now for him. Plant life for military research! Is he going to make Venus man traps? Maybe he’ll create nettles that’ll paralyse people instead of hurting them…

Sound-blanket Bomb

I hate people having a conversation when I’m trying to get home. If her son’s doing military research shouldn’t she shut up about it? Stupid woman. If I had an E.M.P cap (I don’t care that they’re illegal) I’d happily set it off to shut her up. My own earpiece would be as useless as hers but at least I might have silence.

From Banal To…

Is that really what I dream about now? Are bitchy loners that important to me? There were other dreams before that, hopefully more epic. I had an amazing dream about an army of magical creatures once. They were all hybrids of one form or another. I wasn’t one of them myself, just floating above as they marched. I could take in details from any angle and stare without them looking at me. Another dream made me a master of my own world as I moved but not by my own efforts but by manipulating the world to move for me. Buildings leapt out of my way as roads like treadmills carried me as and where I wished.

Infinite Dreams

Dreams have that power don’t they? To take us anywhere be it conscious or subconscious. That is the subject of this piece however well realised. We can be taken, whole, into any reality in no time at all.

Limitation Correction

I wouldn’t say that. Definitely not. There is the potential for an infinite variation of realities but within the confines of the individual’s imagination.