I felt like writing a poem. It did not turn out the way I wanted, but when do they? I feel like showing the progression, so here's how it developed.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
rooms silent in the calm of a new day.
I tiptoe across the wooden floors
and imagine the person who lives here.
Tracing my fingertips along empty shelves
I wish I knew what books belonged.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
I trace my fingers along empty shelves
and try to imagine the person
who lives here, the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.
There is no clue to this stranger's mind,
no hint to their heart,
and I wonder if I'll know her when we meet.
Will she know me?
***
Stranger
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.
***
It is about the future, and how your future self can feel like a stranger. I think. Too much like prose-with-line-breaks, probably, but practice nonetheless~
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
E·EXCHANGE
It's five months into 2012, so it's probably about time I posted something, eh?
Rough idea I came up with way too late at night. Maybe a story, maybe not. It's something~
***
The building sat on the corner of Powers and 21st. It was a small, squat thing, one storey with tinted windows. The sign above the door proclaimed E·EXCHANGE in bold red. The X was missing a half—it looked like a "less than" sign from math class.
Matt ducked through the doorway, the door's bell jangling as it snapped shut behind him. A woman in a grey suit sat behind a desk in the front; behind her stretched a hallway with curtained booths on either side.
"Buying or selling?" she asked.
He stepped closer and coughed. "Uh, selling."
She started typing into her computer. "Name?"
"Matt Johnson."
The keys clattered. She paused and looked up at him, somehow peering down her nose through rimless glasses. He figured she was about 23, maybe just out of college, working here before she found something better. She studied what he knew were rings under his eyes before turning back to the computer screen. "One unit."
"Wait!"
She looked up sharply, and Matt winced at how loudly that had come out. Her finger hovered over the number pad.
"Two, please." One would barely cover food, and there was the rent—
She hit a key. "Two units. Booth four, please."
A red number hung above each booth, swinging on wires from the dirty ceiling. He pushed open the grey curtain and sat in one of the chairs.
He waited.
The first buyer was a girl in her late teens. Choppy haircut, brown with pink tips. Heavy backpack that thudded when she slung it onto the floor next to her seat. A student, probably come from an all-nighter. Tonight would be another one, no doubt.
She slumped into the chair and without glancing at him started hooking up her fingertips to the machine Matt had been avoiding acknowledging for the past ten minutes. A metal box with only one button, it stood on spindly legs bolted to the floor. Cables with tiny electrodes, or sensors, or something, streamed out of a hole. Five red wires for him, five blue wires for her.
The girl was finally looking at him. No, staring, impatient. He started and grabbed the red wires, sticking their ends onto the fingers of his right hand.
He'd only just attached the last one when she smacked the button with the palm of her hand. Matt's head fell back as the energy drained from him. It was over in seconds, but by the time he'd managed to raise his head again the chair across from him was empty.
Matt didn't bother removing the wires. He told himself it was because it was faster to just leave them on for the next buyer, but really he wasn't sure if he could move his arm.
The Energy Exchange Guidelines always said to eat something between units and never sell when you're tired, but the exchanges stopped giving out free snacks years ago. And if he'd had food—Matt smiled, a twitch of his mouth—well, he wouldn't be here.
He drifted a while, not bothering to check his watch.
Rough idea I came up with way too late at night. Maybe a story, maybe not. It's something~
***
The building sat on the corner of Powers and 21st. It was a small, squat thing, one storey with tinted windows. The sign above the door proclaimed E·EXCHANGE in bold red. The X was missing a half—it looked like a "less than" sign from math class.
Matt ducked through the doorway, the door's bell jangling as it snapped shut behind him. A woman in a grey suit sat behind a desk in the front; behind her stretched a hallway with curtained booths on either side.
"Buying or selling?" she asked.
He stepped closer and coughed. "Uh, selling."
She started typing into her computer. "Name?"
"Matt Johnson."
The keys clattered. She paused and looked up at him, somehow peering down her nose through rimless glasses. He figured she was about 23, maybe just out of college, working here before she found something better. She studied what he knew were rings under his eyes before turning back to the computer screen. "One unit."
"Wait!"
She looked up sharply, and Matt winced at how loudly that had come out. Her finger hovered over the number pad.
"Two, please." One would barely cover food, and there was the rent—
She hit a key. "Two units. Booth four, please."
A red number hung above each booth, swinging on wires from the dirty ceiling. He pushed open the grey curtain and sat in one of the chairs.
He waited.
The first buyer was a girl in her late teens. Choppy haircut, brown with pink tips. Heavy backpack that thudded when she slung it onto the floor next to her seat. A student, probably come from an all-nighter. Tonight would be another one, no doubt.
She slumped into the chair and without glancing at him started hooking up her fingertips to the machine Matt had been avoiding acknowledging for the past ten minutes. A metal box with only one button, it stood on spindly legs bolted to the floor. Cables with tiny electrodes, or sensors, or something, streamed out of a hole. Five red wires for him, five blue wires for her.
The girl was finally looking at him. No, staring, impatient. He started and grabbed the red wires, sticking their ends onto the fingers of his right hand.
He'd only just attached the last one when she smacked the button with the palm of her hand. Matt's head fell back as the energy drained from him. It was over in seconds, but by the time he'd managed to raise his head again the chair across from him was empty.
Matt didn't bother removing the wires. He told himself it was because it was faster to just leave them on for the next buyer, but really he wasn't sure if he could move his arm.
The Energy Exchange Guidelines always said to eat something between units and never sell when you're tired, but the exchanges stopped giving out free snacks years ago. And if he'd had food—Matt smiled, a twitch of his mouth—well, he wouldn't be here.
He drifted a while, not bothering to check his watch.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Trapped in a Flash
It's been a while. I haven't been writing much in terms of stories or poems, but I started another blog, so I'm still writing on and off—just different sorts of things.
I'm starting to feel like I need an outlet for creativity again, though, so I thought it might be time to poke around here a bit. Nothing new to post yet, but I thought I might as well add something I wrote back in March/April for a forum contest:
***
I’m still waiting.
Every morning I wake up with the sun and I think that to myself. Or I think it to you, really. It’s a stupid ritual; it’s not like I believe you can actually hear me. My brain waves don’t telepathically transmit the message to wherever you are, or however that mystical bullshit is supposed to work.
Whatever. It passes the time, and it’s true—I’m still waiting.
I haven’t been lazy, though. I don’t just sit around all day at our rendezvous point, looking down each street for the shape of a human figure. (At least, I don’t any more.) Nah, I've been keeping plenty busy.
In fact, the first thing I’ll do is give you the grand tour. (Well, after the hugging and crying, obviously.) I’m pretty proud of my place. It was slow at first, but I think I might have enough food for next winter. I mean, I haven’t run out of canned stuff yet, but it’s good practice for when I do. And wait ‘til you see the solar panels I scavenged!
So yeah. There’s the garden over here. I got a whole bunch of seeds from a Home Depot the first week or so. I had no fucking clue what to do with them, but that’s what libraries are for, right? That building across the street is a library; I chose this house because of it. Knowledge is power, and all that.
Still, books aren’t everything, so I screwed up my first crop of beans and tomatoes. Some disease, or something. I dunno, it wasn’t very clear, and books aren’t great for diagnosing stuff. No idea what I’ll do if I get sick or injured; I doubt some aspirin and medical textbooks will save me, and you're the one who was studying to be a doctor, not me. But hey, I’ll deal with that if it happens. One step at a time.
Anyway, libraries. Totally the shit, despite my failings. I hope you’ve come across some good ones on your journey here. I’ve learned so much useful stuff. How to hotwire cars, how to collect rainwater, how to shoot.
I’m still not very good at shooting things, though. Sometimes I flinch right before I pull the trigger. But there are plenty of guns in the houses around here, so I’ve got a lot of practice. This rifle is my favorite; I carry it everywhere, just in case. Sounds crazy, since I always hated guns, but I like it ‘cause it saved my life. (I know you love dogs, but I swear it was either him or me. I’m hoping you like me more than a feral dog.)
The bastard was going after my chickens. I could show them to you next—there they are. I made the hutch and the wire cage myself. Easy peasy, once I’d stopped hitting my thumb with the hammer.
But the chickens, man, I was lucky to find them. Some hippie was raising them in a backyard. (Well, I dunno if they were a hippie, but I pretend.) I was out looking for things to use, and I heard this faint whimpering. They don’t always cluck, you know. Sometimes it sounds like whimpering. Anyway, I found them, just scratching around in this backyard. Major jackpot. You should’ve seen me chasing them around; took me what felt like hours to catch them. Bet I looked pretty silly.
So I eat a lot of eggs these days. Fried, boiled, scrambled—I haven’t got the hang of poached yet. My kitchen’s on the porch. Yeah, I know it’s just a fire pit and some pots and pans, but I’m still working on the solar oven. Can’t go post in a web forum asking people what I’m doing wrong anymore. I’ve only got a few diagrams and my vague idea of how it should work to go on.
Still, fire’s good. It’s my heat, my stove, my light. I’ve got these solar panels rigged up now, though, so at night I usually use electric light. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times, when I stare out the windows into the dark street at the dead houses, it’s not.
Night time is the worst, really. It's when the fears and doubts creep in. I wonder if you're really coming. I wonder if I imagined that brief conversation we had as the internet was slowly dying around us, websites disappearing as servers shut down. Everything contracting down to nothing.
Of course, the stars are really beautiful. You know that from wherever you are. When I look at them I wish my sister were here. She wanted to be an astronomer, so my parents bought her all these books and charts and even a telescope. But we lived in the city, so she couldn’t see many stars.
Then I'm glad she isn't here, not because I don’t love her, but because I do.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. The solar panels. I use them for more than just lights. Maybe you’ll think it’s stupid. Here I am, the power grid gone, running out of fuel for things like generators and stoves, and I use the solar panels to listen to music.
It’s amazing, though.
Maybe the first thing I’ll do is put on a CD. You like Led Zeppelin, right? What am I saying, everyone likes them.
Finding chickens was good for my stomach, but finding the solar panels was like a fucking epiphany. I just turned the corner one day and there they were on someone’s roof. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I mean, I knew they existed. But I guess I was still thinking inside the box then. Gardening came to me because of my aunt; I had some experience with it, even if I'm shit at it. But my brain was still stuck in old patterns. Expecting electricity to come to me from distant power plants, seemingly by magic.
Expecting someone to parachute in and rescue me.
But yeah. Something about those solar panels flipped a switch, and suddenly I was all gung-ho about this survival shit. Human race might be doomed, but I'm going out in style.
'Course, I don't actually know that the human race is doomed. Maybe the quarantines worked, the ones they set up just as they realized things were getting bad. About a year ago I thought I heard a helicopter going overhead; could've been imagining it, but maybe some foreigners in bio-suits were taking a look-see.
What would they do with us, I wonder? Kill us to stop its spread, or stick us in labs to see why we didn't die? Either way, I decided after the ghost helicopter that I'd hide inside next time, if there is a next time. Y'know, just in case.
Sorry, I'm probably being depressing and shit. Not a great welcome, is it? “Hi, welcome to hell. But at least we're here together!”
It'll be better once you get here, though. I promise.
I'm starting to feel like I need an outlet for creativity again, though, so I thought it might be time to poke around here a bit. Nothing new to post yet, but I thought I might as well add something I wrote back in March/April for a forum contest:
***
I’m still waiting.
Every morning I wake up with the sun and I think that to myself. Or I think it to you, really. It’s a stupid ritual; it’s not like I believe you can actually hear me. My brain waves don’t telepathically transmit the message to wherever you are, or however that mystical bullshit is supposed to work.
Whatever. It passes the time, and it’s true—I’m still waiting.
I haven’t been lazy, though. I don’t just sit around all day at our rendezvous point, looking down each street for the shape of a human figure. (At least, I don’t any more.) Nah, I've been keeping plenty busy.
In fact, the first thing I’ll do is give you the grand tour. (Well, after the hugging and crying, obviously.) I’m pretty proud of my place. It was slow at first, but I think I might have enough food for next winter. I mean, I haven’t run out of canned stuff yet, but it’s good practice for when I do. And wait ‘til you see the solar panels I scavenged!
So yeah. There’s the garden over here. I got a whole bunch of seeds from a Home Depot the first week or so. I had no fucking clue what to do with them, but that’s what libraries are for, right? That building across the street is a library; I chose this house because of it. Knowledge is power, and all that.
Still, books aren’t everything, so I screwed up my first crop of beans and tomatoes. Some disease, or something. I dunno, it wasn’t very clear, and books aren’t great for diagnosing stuff. No idea what I’ll do if I get sick or injured; I doubt some aspirin and medical textbooks will save me, and you're the one who was studying to be a doctor, not me. But hey, I’ll deal with that if it happens. One step at a time.
Anyway, libraries. Totally the shit, despite my failings. I hope you’ve come across some good ones on your journey here. I’ve learned so much useful stuff. How to hotwire cars, how to collect rainwater, how to shoot.
I’m still not very good at shooting things, though. Sometimes I flinch right before I pull the trigger. But there are plenty of guns in the houses around here, so I’ve got a lot of practice. This rifle is my favorite; I carry it everywhere, just in case. Sounds crazy, since I always hated guns, but I like it ‘cause it saved my life. (I know you love dogs, but I swear it was either him or me. I’m hoping you like me more than a feral dog.)
The bastard was going after my chickens. I could show them to you next—there they are. I made the hutch and the wire cage myself. Easy peasy, once I’d stopped hitting my thumb with the hammer.
But the chickens, man, I was lucky to find them. Some hippie was raising them in a backyard. (Well, I dunno if they were a hippie, but I pretend.) I was out looking for things to use, and I heard this faint whimpering. They don’t always cluck, you know. Sometimes it sounds like whimpering. Anyway, I found them, just scratching around in this backyard. Major jackpot. You should’ve seen me chasing them around; took me what felt like hours to catch them. Bet I looked pretty silly.
So I eat a lot of eggs these days. Fried, boiled, scrambled—I haven’t got the hang of poached yet. My kitchen’s on the porch. Yeah, I know it’s just a fire pit and some pots and pans, but I’m still working on the solar oven. Can’t go post in a web forum asking people what I’m doing wrong anymore. I’ve only got a few diagrams and my vague idea of how it should work to go on.
Still, fire’s good. It’s my heat, my stove, my light. I’ve got these solar panels rigged up now, though, so at night I usually use electric light. Sometimes it’s comforting. Other times, when I stare out the windows into the dark street at the dead houses, it’s not.
Night time is the worst, really. It's when the fears and doubts creep in. I wonder if you're really coming. I wonder if I imagined that brief conversation we had as the internet was slowly dying around us, websites disappearing as servers shut down. Everything contracting down to nothing.
Of course, the stars are really beautiful. You know that from wherever you are. When I look at them I wish my sister were here. She wanted to be an astronomer, so my parents bought her all these books and charts and even a telescope. But we lived in the city, so she couldn’t see many stars.
Then I'm glad she isn't here, not because I don’t love her, but because I do.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. The solar panels. I use them for more than just lights. Maybe you’ll think it’s stupid. Here I am, the power grid gone, running out of fuel for things like generators and stoves, and I use the solar panels to listen to music.
It’s amazing, though.
Maybe the first thing I’ll do is put on a CD. You like Led Zeppelin, right? What am I saying, everyone likes them.
Finding chickens was good for my stomach, but finding the solar panels was like a fucking epiphany. I just turned the corner one day and there they were on someone’s roof. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I mean, I knew they existed. But I guess I was still thinking inside the box then. Gardening came to me because of my aunt; I had some experience with it, even if I'm shit at it. But my brain was still stuck in old patterns. Expecting electricity to come to me from distant power plants, seemingly by magic.
Expecting someone to parachute in and rescue me.
But yeah. Something about those solar panels flipped a switch, and suddenly I was all gung-ho about this survival shit. Human race might be doomed, but I'm going out in style.
'Course, I don't actually know that the human race is doomed. Maybe the quarantines worked, the ones they set up just as they realized things were getting bad. About a year ago I thought I heard a helicopter going overhead; could've been imagining it, but maybe some foreigners in bio-suits were taking a look-see.
What would they do with us, I wonder? Kill us to stop its spread, or stick us in labs to see why we didn't die? Either way, I decided after the ghost helicopter that I'd hide inside next time, if there is a next time. Y'know, just in case.
Sorry, I'm probably being depressing and shit. Not a great welcome, is it? “Hi, welcome to hell. But at least we're here together!”
It'll be better once you get here, though. I promise.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Ruth Parsons
I made a Steampunk character a while back for an RPG campaign. I thought I'd take her for a spin.
***
The airship floated into Her Majesty's Naval Base Portsmouth at a quarter past two in the afternoon. Ruth Parsons was summoned to the bridge, and she stepped into the controlled chaos with her carpet bag in one hand and her satchel over her shoulder. The Admiral stood with his back to the bridge and his hands clasped behind him. He stared out past the tarnished brass instruments, surveying the docks and the streets beyond. It was raining, a fine drizzle.
"I wanted to thank you, Miss Parsons. You know how difficult a time my wife and I had finding help on previous expeditions."
"Yes, Admiral Robinson," she replied. "I had heard of such difficulties."
The reason for those very difficulties sidled up to Ruth and tried to slip a gecko into her baggage. She grabbed young Mr. Robinson's wrist and gave him a stern look. He stuck his tongue out at her before dashing away with his little captive.
"And yet you applied for the position of nanny, a position that would take you away from your home an family for over a year." He turned towards her, and Ruth ducked her head.
"I wished to see the world, and my mother felt I would be safer on a Navy expedition. She worries about pirates."
"As well she should." His white eyebrows bristled. "So did you find your adventure?"
Ruth smiled at the slight jesting in his tone. "I believe so, Admiral Robinson."
"Well, then. I wish you luck in whatever adventures you find back here in England, Miss Parsons." He stepped away and Ruth breathed in. "Billy! Say goodbye to Miss Parsons."
One dead tarantula on her shoulder and a quickly-stamped-out firecracker later, and Ruth stepped out into the misty rain. She picked her way down the gangplank gingerly, only breathing again when she was finally on solid ground. The damp was beginning to reach her skin, and she sighed.
"Welcome home, I suppose."
***
The airship floated into Her Majesty's Naval Base Portsmouth at a quarter past two in the afternoon. Ruth Parsons was summoned to the bridge, and she stepped into the controlled chaos with her carpet bag in one hand and her satchel over her shoulder. The Admiral stood with his back to the bridge and his hands clasped behind him. He stared out past the tarnished brass instruments, surveying the docks and the streets beyond. It was raining, a fine drizzle.
"I wanted to thank you, Miss Parsons. You know how difficult a time my wife and I had finding help on previous expeditions."
"Yes, Admiral Robinson," she replied. "I had heard of such difficulties."
The reason for those very difficulties sidled up to Ruth and tried to slip a gecko into her baggage. She grabbed young Mr. Robinson's wrist and gave him a stern look. He stuck his tongue out at her before dashing away with his little captive.
"And yet you applied for the position of nanny, a position that would take you away from your home an family for over a year." He turned towards her, and Ruth ducked her head.
"I wished to see the world, and my mother felt I would be safer on a Navy expedition. She worries about pirates."
"As well she should." His white eyebrows bristled. "So did you find your adventure?"
Ruth smiled at the slight jesting in his tone. "I believe so, Admiral Robinson."
"Well, then. I wish you luck in whatever adventures you find back here in England, Miss Parsons." He stepped away and Ruth breathed in. "Billy! Say goodbye to Miss Parsons."
One dead tarantula on her shoulder and a quickly-stamped-out firecracker later, and Ruth stepped out into the misty rain. She picked her way down the gangplank gingerly, only breathing again when she was finally on solid ground. The damp was beginning to reach her skin, and she sighed.
"Welcome home, I suppose."
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Five Words Poetry
Thought I'd try my hand at another chain poem. In case you don't know, here's the explanation I gave for my previous chain poem blog post:
"There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat!"
***
and a snake slides through the green grass
to escape his heavy boots.
In his hand he holds a bottle of something strange,
gin given to him by a gorgeous stranger
who emerged from the light of heaven.
She was clothed in livery not fit for a lady,
but in her beauty he could not mistake her
for a man, and when she spoke he listened.
Odd words, for an odd woman—
time unravelling like a spool of thread
and war in a distant world.
Her smile was weary, her laugh sad,
and she took a swig for her "Dutch courage."
He said he did not understand
And she said it did not matter.
"Come to the glade tomorrow,
come help me win my war."
And so he came.
***
Hm. Interesting.
I hosted a contest on Locution with the same idea a while back, too. My entry:
***
and think about fate.
I don't believe in it.
No karma, no kismet.
No destiny defined by some deity.
We are gimcracks of the universe,
tucked away on a shelf labeled Gaia.
If I were to turn up my head,
ululate at smears of white on blue,
no one would hear
but an alligator at the bank.
I slide by, chary,
the waves from my vessel
lapping at his feet.
Stretched out on a fallen trunk,
he flicks his tail
as if to say,
“Fuck that shit.”
The trill of a woodpecker
echoes over the lake
and a dragonfly lands on my paddle.
Yeah, fuck that shit.
"There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat!"
***
ginThe gallant knight strides into the glade
glade
gorgeous
gallant
slide
and a snake slides through the green grass
to escape his heavy boots.
In his hand he holds a bottle of something strange,
gin given to him by a gorgeous stranger
who emerged from the light of heaven.
She was clothed in livery not fit for a lady,
but in her beauty he could not mistake her
for a man, and when she spoke he listened.
Odd words, for an odd woman—
time unravelling like a spool of thread
and war in a distant world.
Her smile was weary, her laugh sad,
and she took a swig for her "Dutch courage."
He said he did not understand
And she said it did not matter.
"Come to the glade tomorrow,
come help me win my war."
And so he came.
***
Hm. Interesting.
I hosted a contest on Locution with the same idea a while back, too. My entry:
***
kismetI bob in a kayak
fuck
chary
gimcrack
ululate
and think about fate.
I don't believe in it.
No karma, no kismet.
No destiny defined by some deity.
We are gimcracks of the universe,
tucked away on a shelf labeled Gaia.
If I were to turn up my head,
ululate at smears of white on blue,
no one would hear
but an alligator at the bank.
I slide by, chary,
the waves from my vessel
lapping at his feet.
Stretched out on a fallen trunk,
he flicks his tail
as if to say,
“Fuck that shit.”
The trill of a woodpecker
echoes over the lake
and a dragonfly lands on my paddle.
Yeah, fuck that shit.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Playing in a Sci Fi Sandbox
For a while I've had this idea for a sci fi story or novel. I'm not ready to work on the specific plot, but I thought I'd explore one of the concepts involved.
***
At first she thought it was strange that she could still feel her body. Why wasn't she simply a drifting cloud of consciousness? But the more she pondered this, the more it made sense. Amputees had phantom limbs after all, the odd sensation of having a limb when it wasn't actually there anymore. Your brain stores a map of your body somewhere, and since her brain patterns had been copied exactly, that map was still there.
It was comforting. Her mind could expand in all directions, view feeds from systems all over the city and all over the world, but she still felt centered in her self. There was no fear of losing who she was.
Of course, there was other strangeness to deal with. Mainly, that she was dead but still conscious. Older citizens were counseled with how to deal with their deaths, but she was only 25. Had only been 25.
The sudden grief made her access a CTV camera at her mother's workplace before she knew what she was doing. It hadn't taken her long to rationalize her perceived corporeality, so her mother hadn't been told yet. There she was sitting at her desk, like the day was completely normal, and she couldn't watch, couldn't see the moment when she got the news—
She cut the feed. The sudden lack of visual input made her head spin, so she let the default simulation run.
A field of poppies. She wondered distantly if the programmer had been a fan of The Wizard of Oz. What could be more calming than a flower that lulls people to sleep?
She reached out a finger to touch one of the deep red petals.
"Like it? Made it myself."
***
At first she thought it was strange that she could still feel her body. Why wasn't she simply a drifting cloud of consciousness? But the more she pondered this, the more it made sense. Amputees had phantom limbs after all, the odd sensation of having a limb when it wasn't actually there anymore. Your brain stores a map of your body somewhere, and since her brain patterns had been copied exactly, that map was still there.
It was comforting. Her mind could expand in all directions, view feeds from systems all over the city and all over the world, but she still felt centered in her self. There was no fear of losing who she was.
Of course, there was other strangeness to deal with. Mainly, that she was dead but still conscious. Older citizens were counseled with how to deal with their deaths, but she was only 25. Had only been 25.
The sudden grief made her access a CTV camera at her mother's workplace before she knew what she was doing. It hadn't taken her long to rationalize her perceived corporeality, so her mother hadn't been told yet. There she was sitting at her desk, like the day was completely normal, and she couldn't watch, couldn't see the moment when she got the news—
She cut the feed. The sudden lack of visual input made her head spin, so she let the default simulation run.
A field of poppies. She wondered distantly if the programmer had been a fan of The Wizard of Oz. What could be more calming than a flower that lulls people to sleep?
She reached out a finger to touch one of the deep red petals.
"Like it? Made it myself."
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