The world is cold, I
feel lost, thinking: am I dead
Inside? So hungry.
In summer brains are
Soft, casing easy to peel:
Look! no seeds inside.
Autumn leaves are a
Memory of my hair, which
Falls out as i rot.
Spring is growing things,
Rats burrowing in my legs,
babies born: more brains!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tales of a hunter
1.
I lie to get jobs. Every town is a new name, a new identity thrown on like a cheap coat. Mr. Reynolds was asking me the usual questions, if I thought I’d be a good fit at Harolds. It’s a clothing store and he was treating it as if it would be my first and lost job, as if I planned to sell clothing until the day I died.
I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of motivational tapes he was on.
“So, what do you want to do when you grow up, Billy?”
“I want to work in retail, Ms. Smith.”
“Yes, but what do you want to do?”
“You already know that.”
“We hoped you’d made progress since our last session.”
“Increasing your dosage is not progress. I know what was put on this world to do. Do you?”
I’d laughed, too. You don’t laugh at people in power. It had led to electroshock, but I never admitted to killing anyone. Because hey weren’t people.
He hired me, even told me his first name was Alex. I’m good with people, always have been. Sociopaths are too, I’ve been told, but people tell me a lot of things. Often when they don’t want to and in between screams.
I lasted over three hours until one came in. Complaining old lady demanding this and that, trying to give meaning to miserableness by ordering staff about and considering it an outing, being social, meeting people. It would have been confused with royalty, once, but I saw beneath that. I offered to help her, the new guy foisted on the old lady.
Alex asked me where she was, five minutes later, and I told him I’d left her in the change room. He looked in and staggered out a few moments later, throwing up on the beige carpets. The look on his face when he stared at me told me we were back to Mr. Reynolds but the only asked me to enter his office, then closed the door, and the blinds, and unplugged the phone.
“What the hell happened?!’
“She died,” I said.
“You killed Mrs. Ditmore!”
“Well, yes. It is quite hard to strangle yourself with scarf and bash your head open with shoes. It’s all right though,” I said giving him my third-best smile. “I am sorry I had to ruin a 220 dollar pair of shoes though.”
“Whu--?’
“She was a demon. Normal people do not produce that much blood in a room when beaten to death.”
On reflection, I probably sounded a bit too authoritative as Mr. Reynolds pulled out his cell phone so fast he almost sprained his wrist.
My stomach rumbled, and he nearly wet himself.
I used the moment to stand, grabbing his hand lightly. “You don’t want to do that.”
“You killed one of my customers!”
“You don’t want demons for customers. They cause aggravation, feed on frustration. Demon is just a term for them: they’re an infection, parasites who prevent people from being the best that they can be. I try and prevent them.”
“Mad.” He jerked back. “You’re mad!”
“I’m also hungry. I need a good job; a place to stay for a couple of weeks to ground myself. You call 911 and I’ll tell people you did horrible things to me.”
“N-no one would believe that.”
“The case would drag out. I have lots of buried skeleton,” I said gently. “I bet you do, too. Everyone does. You’d never escape the stigma of it. Or lawyer fees I couldn’t afford to pay, even if you won.”
“How dare you?” He glared, anger pushing the fear aside.
“It’s the law,” I said. “You appear to be a sane man, Alex..”
“Mister Reynolds, to you - whatever you are!”
“All right, Mister Reynolds. Then you should that your being innocent doesn’t matter. Victims go on trial along with the accused. And people would dig up dirt.”
“What kind of monster are you?” he whispered.
“Only the human kind. I’ll be gone in two weeks,” I said. “I just need to pay for some repairs on the car and an alimony payment.”
“Will you kill any more customers?” he demanded.
“Only the demons.”
He paused a moment. “Do they have to be our customers? Can’t you do it outside work hours?”
“Demons exist to destroy the potential to see the good in others, our faith in our shared humanity. Most of them frequent retail.”
“Not politicians?”
“Even demons have standards.” I waited, but he didn’t laugh. “Who do you think is a demon?”
“My niece.”
“Oh. Children.” I reminded myself that the car did need a lot of work, and his desire was working through his shock nicely. “I’ll see what I can do, but if she’s two or a teenager it’s hard to tell.”
He did laugh at that, though I hadn’t been making a joke this time. I didn’t let it bother me; there was one less demon in the world, and that meant the world was a better place, even if I’d spend the next three hours lying to my fellow species and cleaning out a dressing room.
If hunting demons was easy it would show up in the classifieds.
I lie to get jobs. Every town is a new name, a new identity thrown on like a cheap coat. Mr. Reynolds was asking me the usual questions, if I thought I’d be a good fit at Harolds. It’s a clothing store and he was treating it as if it would be my first and lost job, as if I planned to sell clothing until the day I died.
I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of motivational tapes he was on.
“So, what do you want to do when you grow up, Billy?”
“I want to work in retail, Ms. Smith.”
“Yes, but what do you want to do?”
“You already know that.”
“We hoped you’d made progress since our last session.”
“Increasing your dosage is not progress. I know what was put on this world to do. Do you?”
I’d laughed, too. You don’t laugh at people in power. It had led to electroshock, but I never admitted to killing anyone. Because hey weren’t people.
He hired me, even told me his first name was Alex. I’m good with people, always have been. Sociopaths are too, I’ve been told, but people tell me a lot of things. Often when they don’t want to and in between screams.
I lasted over three hours until one came in. Complaining old lady demanding this and that, trying to give meaning to miserableness by ordering staff about and considering it an outing, being social, meeting people. It would have been confused with royalty, once, but I saw beneath that. I offered to help her, the new guy foisted on the old lady.
Alex asked me where she was, five minutes later, and I told him I’d left her in the change room. He looked in and staggered out a few moments later, throwing up on the beige carpets. The look on his face when he stared at me told me we were back to Mr. Reynolds but the only asked me to enter his office, then closed the door, and the blinds, and unplugged the phone.
“What the hell happened?!’
“She died,” I said.
“You killed Mrs. Ditmore!”
“Well, yes. It is quite hard to strangle yourself with scarf and bash your head open with shoes. It’s all right though,” I said giving him my third-best smile. “I am sorry I had to ruin a 220 dollar pair of shoes though.”
“Whu--?’
“She was a demon. Normal people do not produce that much blood in a room when beaten to death.”
On reflection, I probably sounded a bit too authoritative as Mr. Reynolds pulled out his cell phone so fast he almost sprained his wrist.
My stomach rumbled, and he nearly wet himself.
I used the moment to stand, grabbing his hand lightly. “You don’t want to do that.”
“You killed one of my customers!”
“You don’t want demons for customers. They cause aggravation, feed on frustration. Demon is just a term for them: they’re an infection, parasites who prevent people from being the best that they can be. I try and prevent them.”
“Mad.” He jerked back. “You’re mad!”
“I’m also hungry. I need a good job; a place to stay for a couple of weeks to ground myself. You call 911 and I’ll tell people you did horrible things to me.”
“N-no one would believe that.”
“The case would drag out. I have lots of buried skeleton,” I said gently. “I bet you do, too. Everyone does. You’d never escape the stigma of it. Or lawyer fees I couldn’t afford to pay, even if you won.”
“How dare you?” He glared, anger pushing the fear aside.
“It’s the law,” I said. “You appear to be a sane man, Alex..”
“Mister Reynolds, to you - whatever you are!”
“All right, Mister Reynolds. Then you should that your being innocent doesn’t matter. Victims go on trial along with the accused. And people would dig up dirt.”
“What kind of monster are you?” he whispered.
“Only the human kind. I’ll be gone in two weeks,” I said. “I just need to pay for some repairs on the car and an alimony payment.”
“Will you kill any more customers?” he demanded.
“Only the demons.”
He paused a moment. “Do they have to be our customers? Can’t you do it outside work hours?”
“Demons exist to destroy the potential to see the good in others, our faith in our shared humanity. Most of them frequent retail.”
“Not politicians?”
“Even demons have standards.” I waited, but he didn’t laugh. “Who do you think is a demon?”
“My niece.”
“Oh. Children.” I reminded myself that the car did need a lot of work, and his desire was working through his shock nicely. “I’ll see what I can do, but if she’s two or a teenager it’s hard to tell.”
He did laugh at that, though I hadn’t been making a joke this time. I didn’t let it bother me; there was one less demon in the world, and that meant the world was a better place, even if I’d spend the next three hours lying to my fellow species and cleaning out a dressing room.
If hunting demons was easy it would show up in the classifieds.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
I do what I can
I do what I can and I can what I do
But I fear I'm losing it all for you.
I've traded summer for winter, dreams for memories
All for a door to your home and a set of your keys.
I wish I could be certain of anything but doubt
There's your new trick in bed I didn't know about.
Maybe you learned it on the anonynet
All I'm feeling is almost regret.
I do what I can and I say I still love you
Over and over, as if words make it true.
But I fear I'm losing it all for you.
I've traded summer for winter, dreams for memories
All for a door to your home and a set of your keys.
I wish I could be certain of anything but doubt
There's your new trick in bed I didn't know about.
Maybe you learned it on the anonynet
All I'm feeling is almost regret.
I do what I can and I say I still love you
Over and over, as if words make it true.
Monday, June 30, 2008
A Short Poem
Destiny or duty,
the end of one
begetting the other.
We are here to do only
what we can, what we wish
(the difference as slight
as good and evil, as
hate and yearning);
rarer than the gift is one
who can recognize others' gifts.
the end of one
begetting the other.
We are here to do only
what we can, what we wish
(the difference as slight
as good and evil, as
hate and yearning);
rarer than the gift is one
who can recognize others' gifts.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Talk
talk to the person whose
job is to make it clear, whose
way is the sun's Way
hiding from the moon billowing
and we cling to each other
to
the time before dreams ifwhen
the forgetting passes us
by the river clothing hangs to dry
we fish & catch nothing, bait
resting in water's edge
(This is not not-zen zen, just
being lazy)
He says the fish
belongs to the moon, blind as.
job is to make it clear, whose
way is the sun's Way
hiding from the moon billowing
and we cling to each other
to
the time before dreams ifwhen
the forgetting passes us
by the river clothing hangs to dry
we fish & catch nothing, bait
resting in water's edge
(This is not not-zen zen, just
being lazy)
He says the fish
belongs to the moon, blind as.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Ah, language
According to the Lotus Wordpro Canadian spellchecker 'coloration' is a word, yet 'colouration' is not :p
Thursday, June 19, 2008
On the naming of characters
Character names tend to come to me from no discernible place. In some cases, they have meaning (for example, I did one novel (well, half-done it at present) where African names were used for everything, from people to nations, and most of the names told you something about the character (Ayo means joy, which tells someone how he views the world). This is the only time I did something like that, and it was fun. It also got me thinking about the actual process, and what process other people use.
For the current novel (Gloaming) I did my usual method of making up the character in my head and going through bits of plot, fragments of dialog and such until a name came to me that just 'fit'. For example: the one MC came into my head as Katie, and fairly feisty at that. Which seemed all well and good, so I decided I really should know her last name, even if it never comes up in the novel. I picked the last name of some neighbours we had, for something that sounds a little off-normal (Holmes). Then, something about the name Katie Holmes bugged me, and I googled it.
So now her last name must change, unless a YA horror is derailed by people thinking about Xenu. The other MC, however, I ended up going with Mike Smith for, due to how common the names are -- as if his parents tried to ensure he'd be average. The only problem was michael just didn't fit, but somehow Kevin did. Then I googled Kevin Smith, and thereafter banged my head into the desk. So I went with Jaylen (a randomly found name via a generator) but it's not working, so it's back to Kevin. And I'm changing their last names.
I just found it funny that, entirely by accident, I managed to inadvertently name two characters after celebrities. It luckily didn't hold true with the third MC,Duncan Hoyle, whose name came from Duncan popping into my head as nice and solid and Hoyle referring, obliquely, to card games and chance. Which means I still end up using names that provide hints, even when I don't plan to...
For the current novel (Gloaming) I did my usual method of making up the character in my head and going through bits of plot, fragments of dialog and such until a name came to me that just 'fit'. For example: the one MC came into my head as Katie, and fairly feisty at that. Which seemed all well and good, so I decided I really should know her last name, even if it never comes up in the novel. I picked the last name of some neighbours we had, for something that sounds a little off-normal (Holmes). Then, something about the name Katie Holmes bugged me, and I googled it.
So now her last name must change, unless a YA horror is derailed by people thinking about Xenu. The other MC, however, I ended up going with Mike Smith for, due to how common the names are -- as if his parents tried to ensure he'd be average. The only problem was michael just didn't fit, but somehow Kevin did. Then I googled Kevin Smith, and thereafter banged my head into the desk. So I went with Jaylen (a randomly found name via a generator) but it's not working, so it's back to Kevin. And I'm changing their last names.
I just found it funny that, entirely by accident, I managed to inadvertently name two characters after celebrities. It luckily didn't hold true with the third MC,Duncan Hoyle, whose name came from Duncan popping into my head as nice and solid and Hoyle referring, obliquely, to card games and chance. Which means I still end up using names that provide hints, even when I don't plan to...
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
The Cellar's Voice, Without Rainbows
I do not know how long the human body can live without food or water. All I know is I cannot undo the chains holding me to the wall and I am very tired. And dying.
I don’t want to die, but I have no strength left to prevent it, nothing left to call. There is a hole inside me where there was hunger, gnawing emptiness and wind that doesn’t blow in this world. Is this death for other people? I do not know. I only know that I am a magician, and we do not die as others die. I know that and this darkness and the fear of those who refuse to call me kin. Everything else changes but the fear remains. Even if I told them it was I who ended -- but it does not matter.
I am dying, and I have few illusions left the hunger is not stripping away. I still believe they love me, and hope for the future, but I think one can’t live without those illusions; until I die they, at least, will remain. There is a strange kind of peace, if not strength, in having nothing left. They are killing me with their silence, with no food and water, leaving me to starve to death. Perhaps this will reduce the curse a magician makes when they die.
That wouldn’t be a bad thing; I’d rather not curse anyone when I die. Not even those who deserve it; the world has enough curses without me adding more, and far to much hate as things stand. Or perhaps that is only the darkness speaking, giving its own voice to my pain.
It is not their hate that hurts, but the places it reaches inside me that hurt. I hate myself because they hate me. I don’t want to, but it’s hard to not internalize hate, when you’re hated like that. For being a magician, for having magic, for being a legacy of those who destroyed the world so long ago.
And so: fear, hate. I stare into their hearts -- I can do this without power; it’s a trick -- and all I see is their hatred. I want to ask what it does to them, what chaining me destroys in them, but I never have. It would only hurt, especially if it is true. And now I never will.
But there is enough, in my wishing for another life, to press my thoughts into earth and stone. To make the ground remember what men will forget. In another age some magician will hear my voice, know these words. Perhaps a better one, but from here I cannot see it.
They have not let me out of the room in over a year. The last time was because I wanted to see a rainbow, having never had before. I undid chains and the door and walked upstairs, and they screamed and forced me back down. I said I knew no guests were there, but it didn’t matter. Nothing I could have said would, and doing would only make it worse.
It was a very beautiful rainbow, though, and I kept it inside me for months until someone asked for it. She’d never seen one, and I’d never had someone speak in my head, magic to magic, wishing to wishing. She’d heard a lot of stories, so I won’t give her name. She told me magicians can make the dead answer for crimes, so I think - I think she never even told me her real name. Not even for the rainbow.
She took it, though, when I offered it, and she did things. Terrible things, with the sliver of hope it gave her, to give more to her magic than hate.
They’d removed her eyes, so she couldn’t look at them. And done it again, when they grew back. They did that every single year, and I had no response to that. But I knew hate wasn’t enough, for magic. You needed hope, and the other intangibles of the world. She said that, if we had love, we would have changed the world. Enough of us, enough love -- but we are too few, and too far apart, and she leapt into the darkness between thoughts, between wishes, between people. Years, and she only found me.
And all I did was get her killed.
I lie. Even magicians lie. Maybe especially -- we’re lied to do often that the truth has no value. Now I’m just being silly-stupid. But everything is getting slower, fuzzy at the edges. And the hunger has come back, and the magic can’t make it go away.
All things have limits, even magic. Even wishes.
She wanted to make them pay, though I didn’t see the point. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, since it wouldn’t matter. Maybe that’s why I have nothing left, because I have nothing to try for. She thought so; she’d reached me, not I her. I was younger, and I should have been the one to do it. But I wasn’t driven by hate, and there was nothing else to drive me.
The drought was only local; no one else will care, it will only be a brief season, not even a footnote in history. But she made it, with her hate, with her anger, to try and take them with her when she died. Maybe she was stronger than I was, to hate them on their own terms. I don’t know. I just know I can’t do what she did; when I see people, I know them. And you can’t hate something once you understand it, even if they never understand you.
She never saw; I don’t know what her trick was, if she had one. Maybe she lost it with her eyes. I can’t say. I stopped her, though. For the rainbow. Because there hadn’t been any, since her drought, and I wanted to see more before I died. She had anger and hate, and I had nothing. The nothing won.
I don’t know what that says about her or about me. I just know it took too much, and I am dying now and the drought began to fix itself because she is dead. And people found out about her, from the screaming. My family doesn’t want anyone to know I exist, so I die a slow death I cannot escape from.
I wish I had magic enough to make it didn’t matter. I wish I couldn’t understand why they fear us. I wish I could hate them. I - I wish the magic hadn’t taken that away from me with everything else. Why can I hate myself and not them? How does that ... how does it .... work?
The wind is deeper, the darkness inside me greater now. Someone is coming down the stairs, and I can smell food. I can smell food. Torment or blessing, it doesn’t matter. I have gone where tears cannot reach, beyond the places where words have meaning. I am only a voice, putting word into stone, making a final wishing real.
Only this.
And if you, hearing this, can somehow show me a rainbow
just one
even
I might learn happiness
from
I don’t want to die, but I have no strength left to prevent it, nothing left to call. There is a hole inside me where there was hunger, gnawing emptiness and wind that doesn’t blow in this world. Is this death for other people? I do not know. I only know that I am a magician, and we do not die as others die. I know that and this darkness and the fear of those who refuse to call me kin. Everything else changes but the fear remains. Even if I told them it was I who ended -- but it does not matter.
I am dying, and I have few illusions left the hunger is not stripping away. I still believe they love me, and hope for the future, but I think one can’t live without those illusions; until I die they, at least, will remain. There is a strange kind of peace, if not strength, in having nothing left. They are killing me with their silence, with no food and water, leaving me to starve to death. Perhaps this will reduce the curse a magician makes when they die.
That wouldn’t be a bad thing; I’d rather not curse anyone when I die. Not even those who deserve it; the world has enough curses without me adding more, and far to much hate as things stand. Or perhaps that is only the darkness speaking, giving its own voice to my pain.
It is not their hate that hurts, but the places it reaches inside me that hurt. I hate myself because they hate me. I don’t want to, but it’s hard to not internalize hate, when you’re hated like that. For being a magician, for having magic, for being a legacy of those who destroyed the world so long ago.
And so: fear, hate. I stare into their hearts -- I can do this without power; it’s a trick -- and all I see is their hatred. I want to ask what it does to them, what chaining me destroys in them, but I never have. It would only hurt, especially if it is true. And now I never will.
But there is enough, in my wishing for another life, to press my thoughts into earth and stone. To make the ground remember what men will forget. In another age some magician will hear my voice, know these words. Perhaps a better one, but from here I cannot see it.
They have not let me out of the room in over a year. The last time was because I wanted to see a rainbow, having never had before. I undid chains and the door and walked upstairs, and they screamed and forced me back down. I said I knew no guests were there, but it didn’t matter. Nothing I could have said would, and doing would only make it worse.
It was a very beautiful rainbow, though, and I kept it inside me for months until someone asked for it. She’d never seen one, and I’d never had someone speak in my head, magic to magic, wishing to wishing. She’d heard a lot of stories, so I won’t give her name. She told me magicians can make the dead answer for crimes, so I think - I think she never even told me her real name. Not even for the rainbow.
She took it, though, when I offered it, and she did things. Terrible things, with the sliver of hope it gave her, to give more to her magic than hate.
They’d removed her eyes, so she couldn’t look at them. And done it again, when they grew back. They did that every single year, and I had no response to that. But I knew hate wasn’t enough, for magic. You needed hope, and the other intangibles of the world. She said that, if we had love, we would have changed the world. Enough of us, enough love -- but we are too few, and too far apart, and she leapt into the darkness between thoughts, between wishes, between people. Years, and she only found me.
And all I did was get her killed.
I lie. Even magicians lie. Maybe especially -- we’re lied to do often that the truth has no value. Now I’m just being silly-stupid. But everything is getting slower, fuzzy at the edges. And the hunger has come back, and the magic can’t make it go away.
All things have limits, even magic. Even wishes.
She wanted to make them pay, though I didn’t see the point. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, since it wouldn’t matter. Maybe that’s why I have nothing left, because I have nothing to try for. She thought so; she’d reached me, not I her. I was younger, and I should have been the one to do it. But I wasn’t driven by hate, and there was nothing else to drive me.
The drought was only local; no one else will care, it will only be a brief season, not even a footnote in history. But she made it, with her hate, with her anger, to try and take them with her when she died. Maybe she was stronger than I was, to hate them on their own terms. I don’t know. I just know I can’t do what she did; when I see people, I know them. And you can’t hate something once you understand it, even if they never understand you.
She never saw; I don’t know what her trick was, if she had one. Maybe she lost it with her eyes. I can’t say. I stopped her, though. For the rainbow. Because there hadn’t been any, since her drought, and I wanted to see more before I died. She had anger and hate, and I had nothing. The nothing won.
I don’t know what that says about her or about me. I just know it took too much, and I am dying now and the drought began to fix itself because she is dead. And people found out about her, from the screaming. My family doesn’t want anyone to know I exist, so I die a slow death I cannot escape from.
I wish I had magic enough to make it didn’t matter. I wish I couldn’t understand why they fear us. I wish I could hate them. I - I wish the magic hadn’t taken that away from me with everything else. Why can I hate myself and not them? How does that ... how does it .... work?
The wind is deeper, the darkness inside me greater now. Someone is coming down the stairs, and I can smell food. I can smell food. Torment or blessing, it doesn’t matter. I have gone where tears cannot reach, beyond the places where words have meaning. I am only a voice, putting word into stone, making a final wishing real.
Only this.
And if you, hearing this, can somehow show me a rainbow
just one
even
I might learn happiness
from
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
A few poems
We have names
We have names for the masks
Not for what lies under
We only have words for
things we have words for
Every time I dream of you
I forget a few more
A name is
A name is a blow, wound never recovered from;
Who is so full as to be empty?
To whom is it worthy to empty our identity?
One must love without becoming.
His ego, so fragile! forced to steal her name
Who does she not ask for his?
Her Body
They dressed her up as a bride while
I watched, scratching down notes trying
to appear professional, not interested.
I am told it is done to virgins, though
not how one determines that they are
("She was unmarried," I am told, simple,
as if that were answer enough).
Blood is not removed from martyrs here.
burying them with fashion accessories intact
(my definition brings no smiles)
I want to say the bride should be given red,
bloodied: -- Aren't all virgins martyrs? I half-joke.
I'm told only that wives were left that way, dying
for their sins, loving their straying husbands.
Dying for her sins, I am told, undertaker's voice
flint and ebony. I tread still waters: Aids? as if
death needs helpers. A hand waves to compass
the cool room, this silent world.
"This is the disease." I want to say: The world?
but I just take notes, pen stuttering across the page
a lump in my throat, ice in my soul.
We have names for the masks
Not for what lies under
We only have words for
things we have words for
Every time I dream of you
I forget a few more
A name is
A name is a blow, wound never recovered from;
Who is so full as to be empty?
To whom is it worthy to empty our identity?
One must love without becoming.
His ego, so fragile! forced to steal her name
Who does she not ask for his?
Her Body
They dressed her up as a bride while
I watched, scratching down notes trying
to appear professional, not interested.
I am told it is done to virgins, though
not how one determines that they are
("She was unmarried," I am told, simple,
as if that were answer enough).
Blood is not removed from martyrs here.
burying them with fashion accessories intact
(my definition brings no smiles)
I want to say the bride should be given red,
bloodied: -- Aren't all virgins martyrs? I half-joke.
I'm told only that wives were left that way, dying
for their sins, loving their straying husbands.
Dying for her sins, I am told, undertaker's voice
flint and ebony. I tread still waters: Aids? as if
death needs helpers. A hand waves to compass
the cool room, this silent world.
"This is the disease." I want to say: The world?
but I just take notes, pen stuttering across the page
a lump in my throat, ice in my soul.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Presentation, circa 2040
"Humans don't do the operations. It's not that they -- sorry, we -- can't. We can, even if machines are more accurate. History proves that. And machines have never quite matched human intuition when it comes to odd problems, though that is lightly debated. Presentation, please."
An imagine flickers into existence in front of their eyes, a young boy is sitting in a chair, head shaved, strapped into the table while wired run into his head and IV feeds into his body.
He is smiling.
"Now, as you can see, the subject is approximately seven years old. There's no real reason for them to be this old, but we prefer them over three so that they don't into odd problems with bones later on that could call for surgery and possible downtime. Next."
A robot moves into the screen, with needles, saws and other instruments coming out of its torso as it examines the subject.
"While some will -- and do, make no doubt about that! -- object to the Procedure, the graphs included at the end of this presentation show the decreased cost in running the World go down by at least 30%, possibly as high as 40%. The reality is that our clients pay for complete immersion. It's what their parents wanted for them, and what they decide to want for themselves."
The board members nod and smile, running figures on their own programs. They look pleased.
"The reality of the world is that the System is almost entirely automated now. It is entirely possible for aliens to invade, land, destroy our entire infrastructure and the World to remain. We've run scenarios, for those who care to look. If it doesn't we'll all have died and it won't really matter then, will it? Next."
The robot moves forward, inserting needles and bringing down saws.
"The World is whatever the clients wish it to be. Almost none of them make a utopia, almost all have education implanted into their brains without having to learn it and, in general, their lives are considered as rewarding and fulfilling as ours, even if they do spend them entirely in a virtual world. For those who think we do not, there are interesting studies being done on how the universe is one giant holographic projection and the like in any event. All of which means: we have no leg to stand on."
The images changes on the cue word. The robot removes the boy's legs, sealing the wound, and prepared to take him to a smaller, modified creche.
"Gallows humour aside, ladies and gentlemen and others, they have no need of extraneous limbs. Arms remain useful, in case of unforeseen events and the need to manipulate various equipment, but legs are entirely redundant and useless."
The boy is installed gently into the creche by the robot, tubes moved and placed into it as the lid closes.
"Now, if you will switch screens to F, I've prepared an examine of the modified nutrient bath and the savings in effort and energy down the line from producers and distributors to our end. There is no practical need to put energy and nutrients into limbs that do nothing at all, and there are various legal precedents that shore up any case such a thing is needed."
"I do not believe it will be."
He never stopped smiling.
Neither did the board members.
An imagine flickers into existence in front of their eyes, a young boy is sitting in a chair, head shaved, strapped into the table while wired run into his head and IV feeds into his body.
He is smiling.
"Now, as you can see, the subject is approximately seven years old. There's no real reason for them to be this old, but we prefer them over three so that they don't into odd problems with bones later on that could call for surgery and possible downtime. Next."
A robot moves into the screen, with needles, saws and other instruments coming out of its torso as it examines the subject.
"While some will -- and do, make no doubt about that! -- object to the Procedure, the graphs included at the end of this presentation show the decreased cost in running the World go down by at least 30%, possibly as high as 40%. The reality is that our clients pay for complete immersion. It's what their parents wanted for them, and what they decide to want for themselves."
The board members nod and smile, running figures on their own programs. They look pleased.
"The reality of the world is that the System is almost entirely automated now. It is entirely possible for aliens to invade, land, destroy our entire infrastructure and the World to remain. We've run scenarios, for those who care to look. If it doesn't we'll all have died and it won't really matter then, will it? Next."
The robot moves forward, inserting needles and bringing down saws.
"The World is whatever the clients wish it to be. Almost none of them make a utopia, almost all have education implanted into their brains without having to learn it and, in general, their lives are considered as rewarding and fulfilling as ours, even if they do spend them entirely in a virtual world. For those who think we do not, there are interesting studies being done on how the universe is one giant holographic projection and the like in any event. All of which means: we have no leg to stand on."
The images changes on the cue word. The robot removes the boy's legs, sealing the wound, and prepared to take him to a smaller, modified creche.
"Gallows humour aside, ladies and gentlemen and others, they have no need of extraneous limbs. Arms remain useful, in case of unforeseen events and the need to manipulate various equipment, but legs are entirely redundant and useless."
The boy is installed gently into the creche by the robot, tubes moved and placed into it as the lid closes.
"Now, if you will switch screens to F, I've prepared an examine of the modified nutrient bath and the savings in effort and energy down the line from producers and distributors to our end. There is no practical need to put energy and nutrients into limbs that do nothing at all, and there are various legal precedents that shore up any case such a thing is needed."
"I do not believe it will be."
He never stopped smiling.
Neither did the board members.
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