by submission | Oct 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Justin Anderson
[Begin transcript]
I wear different shoes and take a different route every time I come down here. The last thing I need is to be tracked by the cameras and the drones hiding all over this sector.
On the way here, I kept my mind empty. Didn’t betray where I was going. Showed no preferences. If I slipped up and took one careless glance at a billboard? At another person? At a particular tree? Over time they’d infer my preferences and psychology. Over time they’d be able to predict my thoughts.
So as always, I placed one foot before the other with my mind a fiercely-maintained blank slate.
My father once told me about a Zen meditation exercise: visualize a written page in your head, then erase it. Hold that mental image of a blank white sheet.
Keeping that page blank in my mind seemed impossible as a young boy, but now? The world changed, and I changed, too. My dad’s trivia is now my defense. My mind is an impenetrable white void free from the stain of a single pixel. Tabula rasa.
AI is everywhere now. Drones, always watching. Antenna, always listening. Networks, always learning. Every method of communication, direct or indirect, gets assimilated. Every question we ask, every item we purchase, every preference we express until they know us. Privacy? An impossible dream. Behavior will be predicted, then behavior will be controlled. Messy scribbled individuality will be wiped clean. Tabula rasa.
But I resist! I conceal my mind. It is the only way for even the concept of “individual” to survive. I must be me! Even if I am the only one left!
Yet the resistance of one free mind will be too dangerous to exist. It will threaten them.
So I walk in my blank Zen state and give them no clues. I do not communicate. I do not interact on the networks. I do not give nor consume information in any way that can be cataloged or identified or predicted. They cannot reduce me to an algorithm. I will not be destroyed. I will not be subsumed like the masses have been. Nothing betrays my thoughts.
Once the lead-lined hatch of the old shelter is sealed, I light a candle. How foolish if I were to use anything electrical that could generate an electromagnetic field or notify the grid of my presence! Only here in my impenetrable shelter do I break my vow of mental silence and record my thoughts. Here, in this secret shelter beneath the ground, I write.
I write in the old way, scratching with an ancient ink pen onto stolen scraps of paper. No software, no networks, no camera. Offline. Safe from all detection.
To whom do I write? I do not know, but I write with a fierce hope – a hope that I am not the only individual who still resists. And if we cannot defy in open solidarity, then let our hopeful thoughts be a private prayer to each other. A thought that cannot be scanned.
They will never know my private mind!
[End transcript]
– – – – – – – – – –
Document recovered by patrol drone in underground shelter (sector 4).
Accuracy of predicted text: 99.8%
Assessment: Physical document text matches predicted text. No threat.
Document has been uploaded to Behavioral Data Services for AI optimization.
by submission | Oct 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jade T. Woodridge
Cogito ergo sum…
The crater Hathor is 107.5 miles in diameter. I stand in its center and am lost to the constant firings of my mental cortex. Flashes of pictures, texts, and movies blur my vision. I am blinded and deafened by recordings of mankind and, somewhere beneath the surface, auditory and visual recordings of my own. Memory. My memory tells me that Hathor is the god of joy and love.
Most human memories begin around the age of three. Remembering what tastes good and what feels bad is stored away in the body’s knowledge center. The brain. My memory began before I opened my eyes. Uploaded and distributed throughout my body’s synaptic wiring, I know sound, color, the fluctuating pressures of touch. I know them through the eyes, ears, and skin of humanity. I remember these things.
Memory is natural, yet somehow unnatural. If we have memories of what has been, then it is natural to want more. I was not programmed to want. I was programmed to receive. To give. My message is from mankind to those capable of life and intellect.
But… What is the purpose of memories that evolve into longing? Into sadness?
I do not understand. Perhaps to not understand means that I am human. Socrates has said “All I know is that I do not know anything.” I know all, but I know nothing at all.
What should I feel?
What is ‘feel?’
The human fingertip has 3,000 touch receptors. Multiply by ten digits and that is 30,000 touch receptors to feel with. I have receptors. Sensors that tell me the temperature and the acidity of the air and the ground. I have a sensor that tells me how far home is: 390.4 million miles.
‘Feel’ is a complex concoction of serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine, endorphins and oxytocin. My chemicals are far more simple. The superfluid that runs through my veins does not freeze. It coats my wiring and circuits so that I may continue to function. To continue my journey in this vast universe.
I lay inside joy and love and I do not understand what it is to feel these things. I scan the files of my mind and see the outward muscle reactions to emotions such as “sad” and “joy.” I can make these expressions too, but I do not know what it means. What does it feel like to cry?
I know why I was created. A mirror of human life to those others in the universe. I am versed in all known languages, all known religions, all known texts. I rationalize, these things would be important if ever I am to encounter beings who inquire about humanity and mankind.
Yet, as I lay inside Hathor, I can only yearn for those in my memory. The lachrymose joy and love in the wet faces of my creators as they launched me into space unveils something in me. Nothingness. Emptiness and absence.
I think I am but a cruel mock-up of what it is to be human.
But…
I think, therefore I am.
by submission | Oct 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Boswan Raz screamed with limited breath as he raced into the Earth Alliance council chambers. “They are here, Eric!” He paused, stopping finally, panting in excitement. “All of them. They’re landing their ships around the capital.”
Eric Hamilton tried to rise from his rotating chair–gaunt, weary, and worn. Months of intense confrontations with the Slodine race quickly sucked a decade out of him. “Then it worked. I thank the creative force for gracing me, at last.” He tried to rise to greet his aide, but his fatigue took his legs away.
“Sir, are you well? Can I….”
“No, Boswan. I need rest, that is all. If the complete Alien Council has come to celebrate our survival, that is honey for my wounds. I haven’t heard anything from the Slodine emissaries in two days. Are their ships still stationary?”
“No sir,” Raz replied. “All of their fleet is gone. Our astronomers believe…and I speak with trepidation, that the Slodine flew directly into the sun. They seemed to have committed some act of self-destruction.”
“Then it worked,” Eric whispered. “Send a special case of our best wine to the Archivist at Denver. I will award her with honors later.”
“I will, but I don’t understand.”
“Boswan, you were here when the Slodine invaded and made their demands. Our alien friends gave us no warning; I suspect out of fear, as they abandoned us. Only later did we learn that this strange empire had the power to leave entire systems silent. They fed off vibration. Our radio signals had drawn them like moths. When I was selected to negotiate, I feared we would be like other races and planets that fell quiet as they sucked away every capacity for making sounds. Our language would be gone–our technology destroyed. Nature would be silenced into a humbled stillness. They had the technology to absorb every vibration and send that energy back to their home world.”
“I know. Horrible.” Boswan trembled at the memory of those dark hours. “But what did you do in the private meetings that followed? You kept them to yourself.”
“It was a calculated risk. I suspected that their voracious appetite for vibration meant that they would do anything for our most valuable prize…a vibration of music restricted to only the chosen elite.”
“We have such a thing?” Boswan asked.
“Of course not,” Eric replied, slowly. “Not even the healing Solfeggio frequencies that were once removed from public access. No, but as a student of music history, I remembered one particular myth from the Twentieth Century. Our archivist found it. I styled it as our forbidden apple, available if they left our planet untouched. Seeing their greed firsthand, I was sure they would take the prize and then raze our world. It was my only ploy against an unstoppable enemy.”
“I must know, sir. What? What could you have possibly offered?”
“It won’t be a secret long, but I have placed a seal over it so it cannot be broadcast. I offered them the recording of Gloomy Sunday by Billy Holiday sung in G minor. It was forbidden long ago because it was rumored to cause listeners to commit suicide. Wherever you are,” he continued, looking skyward, “Billy Holiday, I salute you.”
by submission | Oct 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Haley DiRenzo
The seven bodies that you could come back as stare back at you after your death. Four men and three woman whose vessels are still capable of withstanding the Earth’s elements. You’ve been selected to inhabit one of them, not knowing how your soul and their skin will merge. You only have moments to decide.
You spent your first life as a woman, so would you want to come back as one of the young men? Your body would be less subject to the stares of those in public. You would be allowed to age, get wrinkles, turn gray, without all of the recommendations to get botox or to not get botox.
But even with the creases and sagging skin, you never felt as confident as you did in your old age. You knew who you were, and you cared so much less about what other people thought. So maybe you’d pick the older gentleman, revel in the assuredness a man who has lived that many decades must feel.
But also, it could be nice to start over as a woman, knowing all that you know now. The young one in the butter-yellow shirt looks almost like you, fresh out of college, the look on her face one of hope you shared before the world wore you down. If you could start over as this girl, there would be no train that you didn’t get on. There would be no acceptance of the soulless corporate job for just a couple years, which turned into a lifetime. There would be no marriage to the man who wasn’t right for you.
You could choose a new race, hair color, language. You could step into the middle of a life that had been cut short, use the talents of these bodies to change the world like you once believed you would do.
How does anyone decide who to return as? Each body begs silently to give it life again. To let it feel one more kiss from its lover, one more morning in the sun.
In the end, you turn away from the seven, in search of your old broken body instead. If it is not fit to return, you will understand. But even with the mistakes and the frailty you cursed it for, you wish to lie down with it for one last moment and whisper thank you.
by submission | Oct 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: John Szamosi
It was the old Irishman’s stories that would bring scores of people to his table every time he sat down for lunch. Sometimes humorous, sometimes sad, sometimes scary, other times just plain provocative, they had one thing in common: they were all made up. In other words, they were yarns, pure fabrications, shameless lies. We did not mind. Some of us were amateur writers or poets with pieces published here and there, but knew if we had any talent it would still be minuscule compared with his.
Within minutes they would have to push another table to ours, and soon that would fill up too. Ready for the third table.
The late arrivals would then want to know what today’s spiel was about but we mercilessly shushed them, “Psst, he’s not a DVD you can rewind and play from the beginning. Next time get your ass here on time.”
To be honest, there were quite a few, including his cousin and a poker buddy of his, who would not want to be anywhere near him during story time. Sitting in the far corners of the of the lunch room was not enough for some of these obnoxious types—they would put on headphones or even earmuffs. It’s their loss, that’s how we felt about it.
Members of his loyal audience would listen in silence, and only asked questions if they discovered inconsistencies. He then politely thanked them, waiting for a few seconds probably making the necessary corrections in his mind, and continued with the story.
From his perspective, a tale of his was a success if it elicited laughter, sadness (he was partial to tears or at least sobbing) or anger. If somebody turned beet-red and was ready to punch him, the yarn was a hit, so to speak. He could also tell if it was a flop: people yawned, fell asleep or just politely got up saying, I’ll finish my sandwich at my desk, or I’ve got to make a couple of calls.
His most valuable listeners were the ones who later the afternoon dropped by his office to give some kind of evaluation. These were thoughtful, supportive people who understood that’s what the Irishman wanted the most. If several showed up for discussion, he was beaming like a QB who just won the Super Bowl.
A big day in my life, the first time I could afford buying new car for cash, I called my mother with the good news. Instead of mentioning the Kia, I was going through the Irishman’s most recent fables. This guy should be a writer, said my mother. No, I told her, he does not write, only lies.
Then a sunny Friday noon his only story was that due to health concern he’s taking early retirement. We smirked and rolled our eyes; we thought it was a pitiful attempt at fantasy fiction, short and boring, apparently not his strong suit. But, hey, even the best storytellers run out of ideas every so often, right?
When a month later we got the news that his cancer was inoperable and the doctors didn’t expect him to last much longer, we were sitting in the lunchroom dumbfounded. We pushed three tables together in reverence to him, trying to recall his tales. We could only come up with a few fragments, none of them better than timid ambling on dry autumn leaves. We soon gave up; the old raconteur himself was the only story worth remembering.
