by featured writer | Dec 14, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, featured writer
The cavernous chamber of the Galaxy Arcade is filled with phantasmagorical colors, super-nova bright and a deafening riot of beeps, blips and core shuddering rumbles. Most of the games – “6th Dimension”, “Quantum Exchange”, “The Abyss” – are tended by dedicated players striving to beat high scores, but most players hover around the new game; the onlookers oohing and ahhing occasionally. Curious, I insinuate myself into the crowd for a better view.
Garish neon lettering advertises the game’s name – “Incarnation”. Its interfacing is unique from other games, which are mostly fully immersive holographic environments, or 3-D table-top varieties. “Incarnation” requires the player to crawl inside a clear, crystalline egg, open on one side, with a contoured platform to lie on within. There are no obvious controls, no buttons, no joystick and, oddly, no score board.
The current player is seemingly asleep on the platform; limbs idle while a chaotic stream of expressions flows across their face with uncanny speed. The rapid chain of emotions makes them look deranged, but eventually their countenance grows placid and calm. They look older, somehow. A moment later they open their eyes and smile.
“Amazing,” the player says, climbing out of the orb to stand amid the throng of spectators. Already a new player is crawling inside. I watch as this player succumbs to whatever unseen power the game has, sinking into a twitching oblivion.
I edge myself closer to the player who has just emerged. “What was it like?” I ask.
They look at me, a strange feminine glow fading from their typically androgynous eyes. “I – I don’t know how to describe it. So strange. So wonderfully strange,” is all they say before wandering off to be alone with alien memories.
The new player doesn’t last very long. Almost immediately, painful looking convulsions wrack their face, twisting it into contortions of fear, desperation, then agonizing pain. A moment later it’s over. The player clutches the edge of the platform, eyes glazed with an ecstasy of emotion. “What a rush!”
“What happened?” I ask.
“I was eaten by a saber-toothed lion.” The crowd “oohs”.
“What was your score?”
The player looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I was eaten,” is all they say, as if that’s answer enough.
I patiently wait my turn, watching player after player emerge from the game somehow altered by their experience. When my time finally comes, I step forward, insert my Quark into the awaiting slot and climb in. The platform adjusts automatically to my form. I lay back, close my eyes and wait.
I’m moving down a dark, warm tunnel, a pinpoint of ruddy light my destination. Suddenly, a cold, harsh glare crashes in, blinding me. I’m shivering. I’m crying. I taste blood.
So, this is what it’s like to be born! To be flesh and blood.
To don the shackles of mortality.
Cool!
When it’s over, I exit the machine filled with the thoughts and feelings of a Golden Retriever named Sparky. I didn’t win. I didn’t lose. I had simply lived.
Another player asks me, “What’s it all for? What does it mean?”
“Only one way to find out,” I reply, walking away, striving to retain every moment of my experience. I will return to the Galaxy Arcade. I will play “Incarnation” again. A new life. A new perspective.
But for now, I wrap myself in the ephemeral memories of my first life, plucking esoteric treasures from the seemingly mundane drudgery of a single glorious existence – keeping score.
by featured writer | Dec 10, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, featured writer
I hate psychologists with a passion, but when I saw the ad requesting lucid dreamers for research into the origin of dreams, I couldn’t resist. Besides, they’re offering stipends and I need the cash.
I stub out my cigarette and suck back their crappy coffee from a tiny styrofoam cup. At least it’s free.
“How long have you been a lucid dreamer?” the black chick asks. She isn’t half-bad looking for a shrink, but she’s still a pompous brain jockey.
“All my life.” I respond. I pull out another smoke.
“How much control do you have?” the other one asks. What a dweeb! I mean, come on, who uses pocket protectors anymore?
“I can do whatever I want.” I light up, inhale and wink at the hottie, then exhale my smoke at the dweeb. “I go wherever I want, whenever I want. I can fly, make it rain, say what I want, make love to – ”
“We’re not interested in your sexual fantasies,” the dweeb cuts in. “Just your range of control.”
“Whatever.” I sulk.
Brown Sugar takes over and asks the strangest thing. “If you were given specific questions, would you be able to ask them in your dream?”
“Ask who?”
“We’ll get to that. Just answer the question.” The nerdy guy is getting testy. I don’t think he likes me. Whatever.
“Yeah. As long as it wasn’t a bunch of whack, nerd lingo, sure.” They share some significant eye contact. Stupid skull fuckers. “So, what’s this study for anyway?”
Hotstuff gets a twinkle in her eye and starts yammering about how they’ve made some breakthrough concerning the origin of dreams. They’ve worked out that dreams are actually the brain’s response to an external stimulus, but they don’t know what the source of that stimulus is. Why? Get this – because it appears to be everywhere, all the time. Whatever this thing is manifests in each dreamer differently depending on their psychology. Some people respond with fear because they’re phobic, some experience joy and great sex because they’re “well adjusted”. I had to laugh at that part. Nobody’s ever suspected an external influence, except maybe native shamans who interpreted dreams as messages from Christ knows where. It all sounds pretty fucked up to me and I tell them so.
“Look,” Brainiac snaps. ”All we ask is that you allow us to take you into REM sleep. When you’ve established control all you need to do is ask some questions and remember the answers. It’s that simple.”
“What do you say?” Dr. Sex-bomb smiles. I think she’s warming up to me.
“Sure. What the hell.”
It’s a recurring dream. I’m in my mother’s house where I grew up, but my mother isn’t there. I’m alone. I search every room, but all I find is piles of junk. I open a door and I’m crushed by an avalanche of garbage. For some reason, I know it’s my garbage; hamburger wrappers, beer cans, cigarette butts, porn mags, televisions, DVD’s, ballcaps – everything I’ve ever owned fills the house to the brim. I’m drowning in it.
I look at my hands. Six fingers. Concentrate. Five. Good. I’m getting control.
I will myself outside and float toward a lime green sky.
“Can you hear me?” I ask.
“Yes.” The clouds respond.
“Where are you?”
“I am everywhere.” The air vibrates.
“What are you?”
“I am your Mother. Sky. Water. Soil. Home. I am Earth. I am death. I am life. I am dying. I am dying. You are killing me.”
“What do you want?”
“I need you to listen carefully…”
by featured writer | Dec 7, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Featured Writer
“Good evening honored representatives of the World Coalition,” Dr. Dretch drones standing near an unconscious patient strapped to an inclined table. The top of the patient’s skull has been removed, revealing grey brain matter. A neural net, made of fine filament is stretched across the moist tissue, relaying relevant data from various lobes to several sleek, crystalline monitors surrounding the Doctor. His audience, the Cabal, observe from some unseen gallery.
“I have dedicated my entire life to realizing the World Coalition’s glorious vision; ‘The unification of all global citizens under one supreme authority.’ To this end, I have perfected Cerebral Mechanics, the science of mind control.
“With Cerebral Mechanics I’m able to manipulate every system in the body, effectively playing it like an intricate musical instrument. Most importantly, like any instrument, it can be re-tuned, simply and effectively.
“Cerebral Mechanics will reshape the way the modern mind thinks, ending the anarchy of rebellion currently plaguing the World Coalition. With your permission, I shall demonstrate.”
Dretch beams proudly. After a tense silence, a voice speaks. American. “We’re aware of your alleged success, Doctor, however, the reason you’re here today is to demonstrate the unexpected side effect of Cerebral Mechanics mentioned in your report. Meta-Consciousness. The OMEGA Complex.”
A sheen of moisture appears on Dretch’s forehead. Thin tributaries of sweat form quickly within the deep contours of his face, bending around the multi-optics monocle implanted in his right eye to finally drip off his pudgy chin.
“Deliberately initiate OMEGA Complex? That would not be advisable.”
“You’re a Cerebral Mechanic, Doctor, not an advisor.” Asian female. “Can you, or can you not duplicate OMEGA Complex? We wish to observe this phenomenon.”
“I’ll begin immediately.” Dretch adjusts his neural wand anxiously. “I must caution, however, the identity I’m about to manifest poses a very dangerous threat. Furthermore, Cerebral Mechanics will no longer be a viable tool for control once the patient has gone OMEGA.”
“We’ll consider ourselves sufficiently warned. Proceed.” German.
Reluctantly, Dretch initiates the complicated procedure, his neural wand targeting strategic cerebral algorithms. After several minutes of intricate, synaptic adjustments, he steps nervously away from the table. The patient’s mouth has curved into a disturbing, beatific smile.
“OMEGA complex initiated. Request permission to leave Operating Gallery.”
“Denied. Commence the interview.”
Dretch turns nervously toward the patient, whose febrile eyes are fixed on him, latent power glowing within.
“Do I unnerve you, Doc?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” Dretch snaps, struggling to maintain control.
“Ask away.”
“Who are you?”
“You’d be more interested in what I am.”
“What are you then?”
It sings, note perfect, “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.” Lyrics from a long black-listed song of the previous century.
“Nonsense.”
“What was once divided has been remade. I am Omega-Mind, perceiving the beginning and ending of all things.”
“Will you serve the Coalition?” Dretch’s voice trembles with false courage.
“How little you understand. There are no servants. There’s nothing to serve.”
The patient’s restraints clatter to the floor. Lights flicker as he levitates from the chair, wreathed in blue auroral flames.
“Destroy them,” someone commands.
“You kill your prophets, now witness! Your house is left desolate!” His eyes ignite – twin suns of rage within a living dynamo. Bolts of electricity lash the room. “The Universe beckons!”
Vents blast the Operation Gallery with broiling clouds of poisonous gas. When the smoke clears only Dretch’s electrified corpse remains. The patient is gone. There is no sign of egress.
“We must harness this power.” The American.
In Chinese, “Perhaps we’re not meant to.”
by featured writer | Dec 3, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey, Featured Writer
“That’ll be two-thousand kilowatts,” the droopy eyed clerk said when he finished scanning Sarah’s purchase. She held out her debit battery, which was running depressingly low; prayed she had enough. The clerk barely looked at her as he snagged the black, glossy storage unit and slid it into the transfer terminal. A light blinked momentarily then went solid green. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Sarah retrieved her depleted battery, packed her purchase carefully into her backpack, shouldered it and stepped outside into thick, muggy air.
The treeless streets were crowded with a shuffling throng of pedestrians and commuters on bicycles. Very few internal combustion autos were on the roads these days since fuel prices had skyrocketed. Electric vehicles were also rare, used exclusively by obscenely wealthy power brokers. Since electricity had become the standard currency, it was considered frivolous to use so much energy to commute. Even the most efficient electric automobile consumed enough kilowatts in a short fifty kilometer trip to buy a family food for an entire week.
Sarah glanced up at the sky. Overcast. Again. Which meant the solar collector on her patio would barely be charging. Sunny days were rare, but when they happened, the whole world was rejuvenated, basking in the sun’s generous outpouring of energy. Pale faces showed a hint of color. Batteries charged. Pennies from heaven.
But today, the slate grey sky was reflected in the slack faces of the desultory mob, which moved like an ocean, flowing in strange Brownian currents to myriad destinations.
She passed a communal dinning hall where she would normally have eaten a meager dinner, but she was low on kilowatts. The smell of spiced lentils made her stomach growl. She moved on.
She passed the crowded mag-rail station and envied those who could afford to ride it. She felt the weight of the parcel in her pack and fought a brief pang of guilt. If she hadn’t spent so much on a frivolous luxury she could ride home. Her legs ached after a long day pedaling the bicycle which powered the lights at the slaughterhouse. Perhaps tomorrow she would find a better job. A waitress in one of those fancy restaurants. Or a garbage collector. Anything but pedaling for ten hours. She shouldered her bag and continued walking.
It was dark by the time she got to her tenement building, a towering, terraced honeycomb of concrete. She didn’t bother with the lift. It was usually out of order anyway. Instead, she slowly climbed the winding stairwell to the tenth floor feeling the inert weight of her precious bundle in each step.
“I’m home,” she trilled softly as she closed the door to her tiny darkened apartment. The air was cooler here, fresher, smelling faintly of lemon and roses. Her sanctuary.
She checked the apartment’s battery supply. Less than 15% capacity, but she dared to turn on the full spectrum fluorescents. Just for a little while. They would need it.
As the lights flickered on, the room blossomed into a lush riot of verdant foliage. Ivy clung to the walls and spilled out the open window. Vibrant flowers, spiky dracaenas, broad leafed rubber plants, variegated hostas and herbs all vied for light; a veritable oasis of life.
She dropped her pack, withdrew the heavy bag of fertilizer and soil amender and began tending her tiny, luscious garden. Here, within her cocoon of life, she found a wealth greater than anything electricity could buy. She found peace. She found hope.
by featured writer | Dec 11, 2011 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, featured writer
I am a dog, a happy dog. I have found my way. Found my way I have, right through the loose part of the fence. I have worked the loose part for some time. Some time now I have three or four days at least. I have pushed with my head and dug with my paws. Until finally now I am free.
Chase me they do, it is a game. I like the game. I smile as I run. Chase me fast they do. They cannot run like me. They use machines with four legs that go round and round instead of up and down. Those machines are fast, but not fast like me. I run and smile. Sometimes I slow down to let them get closer. I do not run too far ahead. This is not fun. No one to chase me.
But now I wonder. They seem mad. They shoot ropes. Ropes woven like spider webs. Like spider web blankets trying to fall on me and catch me. But I am too fast. I run left and then, zigzagging across the countryside I get away again, but not too far. I soon slow down to let them think they are going to catch me once again.
Now the drug is starting to really take effect. What is a drug I snap awake. I am a dog. I am a very smart and very fast dog. I have been given enhancement injections for nearly a month now. At first they didn’t realize the change. But I felt it. The other dogs, and cats, and the chimpanzee — they all felt it. But my cage was on the outside, against the dirt floor of the compound. I remember giving the orange cat a look that said, Ill be back if I can.
Now I realize if they catch me they might terminate me. I cannot guarantee my own safety with these radical humans. It is time to run fast, very fast indeed.
***
I have seen the chimp. Whilst winding my way incognito through the city park one day I caught a glimpse of him hiding in the trees with a devilish look on his face. He saw me and recognized me at once. And then did something eerily human. He held up an index finger to his shushing lips and winked at me knowingly. Even with my new intelligence, at the time I had no clue what he was planning.
Suddenly the world was on the lookout for artificially enhanced animals. Thanks to the astonishment of one particularly surprised zoologist who, in trying to fix her morning coffee, discovered a large chimpanzee there finger-painting, just for her, perfectly worded messages in the moisture on the outside of her patio door.
The secret was out. In truth there were really only a handful of us. And most were eventually caught, even the orange cat. In fact there was nothing but that poor fellow, whom the masses had deemed, Morris on the evening newsreels for days as they publicly questioned him. They made him push a yes or no pad with his forepaw. It was quite painful to watch. And in the end I doubt the humans were any further ahead.
But I dont care any more. I am a dog. I am a dog trying to be happy. I have a new family who loves me. Here on the farm where the children pet me, and the mother gives me treats. I will protect this family for the rest of my life. My tail goes thump-thump-thump. I am a dog.
