Read Part 7

Wheels were turning in Jane’s head, but also she was thinking. Cyberpipe vapor did not agree with her system. Nanobots were hard at work filtering out any toxins before the air hit her degenerative lung tissue, but still a painful inflammation was growing in her chest. I could kill for some freeze-vapor right now, she thought. Seated opposite her, the man in the pinstriped suit flashed her another chrome-filled smile. Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad. She tucked her long black hair into the hood of her jacket, hoping it would block the stench.

The HoverLuxe had wound its way through narrow San Francisco streets for at least an hour. Jane found it curious they never took to the air, but evidently the Mr. Polhaus was in no hurry. Beyond introducing himself and reloading his pipe with a fresh cartridge he had done nothing but stare at her and smile whenever she coughed. Jane felt comfortable withstanding such brutal torture. Every minute gave her the upper hand as Ricky hacked that data.

Hopefully.

In the meantime, Jane scanned the inside of the town car in a lazy, meandering way. Wood paneling was a good sign: that meant old-school, which meant Mafia, not Bolt Gang. There was, however, a subtle odor of bleach. Sanitization Robots were known to collect DNA samples when they encounter unusual bodily fluids. This car had been scrubbed down recently — by hand. Not a good sign.

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The lake was cold today. The dredgeman noticed this, just as he noticed the dirty grey sky and the brown leaves falling from the willow trees. The banks of the rivermouth are smothered with leaves this time of year. The barge’s propellers chopped through the shallows, grinding summer’s branches into winter’s mud. Metallic groans echoed through the hulls — the engine was stressed. It refused to wake up and breathe cold air. Fumes, a shade blacker than the day before, left streaks on the undersides of leaves still clinging to branches.

This too the dredgeman noticed. He saw, he remembered, but he did not think. He did not acknowledge the barge’s complaints. And so the barge pushed out, cut through the shallows, and entered the deep water.

A dredge barge might have a crane, or it might have a hook, a claw, a net, a suction tube, or a blade. The dredgeman uses the right tool for the job. On this lake though, there is only the worst job. The dredgeman learned that lesson long ago.

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Read Part 6

Rick got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. Coding the exploit was taking too long; after the breach last night, Pliant had locked down most of their systems. The gaming network was still active, though — there had to be a way in.

The coffee was bitter and delicious.

He hadn’t heard from Jane in three hours.

The list of Brain-Protocol addresses was the only thing making an exploit possible. There was a time, Rick knew, when a resourceful quack (or “hacker” as they said back then) could just scan the “web” for insecure devices. Then came the neuro-tech boom and suddenly everyone realized the term “Internet of Things” was offensive when the “things” were actually sentient beings. The Internet of Brains stirred up a lot of civil rights questions, but it finally made encryption and authentication mainstream issues.

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A handsome, ethnically-ambiguous man sweeps across the stage. It is the future, or an alternate present, and he is the host of a television show. The stage has a backdrop which is colored a color. There is a couch, which is another color.The man’s suit is a third color. All of the colors look good together, but I can’t explain why because this isn’t my world. This is the world of Reality Television.

The man’s name is Franz Gauthama Sartescarte but he uses a stage name which is Phil O’sopher. Everyone thinks that’s great. Everyone watches his show, many people love it, no one watches it too much, and all of the children brush their teeth before bed. Everyone is just as happy as you are, and just as sad as you are, but they all watch the show no matter how they are feeling. The show is called Who Is Actually, Genuinely, Truly a Good Person?

WIAGTAGP is a social experiment in the same way that leaving the house in the morning is a social experiment. Mr. O’sopher, however, would argue the show is far less cruel than that. In fact, contestants are trying not to leave the house at all. They are not trapped though. They can leave any time they want, but they want to win more than they want to leave.

WIAGTAGP is a competition in the same way that leaving the house in the morning is a competition. The rules are simple:

1. Six people live in a house together.
2. No one knows which of them is a good person.
3. When an individual decides he or she is not a good person, he or she must leave the house.
4. If an individual decides he or she is a good person, he or she wins.
5. Everyone must wear purple on Thursdays.
6. There is no voting and no one can force any other person out of the house. (Except by reminding someone that they forgot to wear purple.)

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I don’t cry during visits to the doctor anymore. I hope my doctor appreciates that,  because as a little boy I was nimble and could really dodge a needle — that is, if curling up in a ball and crying counts as nimble. It is important for a child to have an aversion towards stab wounds, but vaccines are vaccines, and I would probably scream more if I had the mumps anyway. My mom needed a way to persuade me to accept healthful-injections, so that’s how I first experienced Toys-R-Us.

Oh toys. There is no feeling like shopping for toys inside of a giant warehouse devoted to toys. Previously, I had only browsed Lego catalogs and the paltry shelves of the local pharmacy chain. Entering through those quadruple-sliding automatic doors was a revelation. This was where presents were born! This was where rich kids got fancy shit! Maybe I could get some fancy shit!

Mom quickly established that there was a price limit on “being brave” which, honestly, was probably higher than I deserved. That didn’t matter much to me; the experience was worth more than any single toy. This place had child-sized cars that you could actually drive. There were toys that were just upgrades to other toys. There were lifelike characters from TV shows I had never been allowed to watch. Fortunately, there were branded gadgets from the most aptly named franchise possible: Toy Story.

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Setting-Sun Francisco
Where I wonder what I spent
Paying for a service that’ll tell me where the money went
And it’s not just the rent
It’s the cost of living
	Amidst the piss
	Dried on a spray-painted fist
	Outside the office
That’s been giving me the paycheck
To spend eight hours a day
	So that I can say I’m okay
		So that I can defend
		My decision to spend
		The weekend
Connected to cell-towers and play
Video games ‘cause they give me superpowers
And I got friends who claim it’s enough
So I hope they get stuff for their birthdays 
And I hope they get love on their worst days
And, yes,
	Drink champagne when they thirstay

But that’s not my line
No, you know
I got the privilege to wine
My life is fine
But I’m dissatisfied with satisfaction
All my struggles are distraction
In this city built on misplaced passion
This place is a reaction
	To a craving
The whole world’s attraction to saving
Every data point
	I had a date make a point
	That today’s date is just a point
On a line, and the line is time
But we’re all bad at math
	So we wait for fate to disappoint
	According to rules we appoint
Then we curse the graph when the path turns
And take more photos ‘cause a fool never learns

Good thing I’m different
Or just indifferent
As long as I criticize
	The disguise
	On which I rely
I can hope you don’t realize
	The lies
	I despise
	Are my allies
Did I mention my paycheck?
Did I mention my office?
Did you know I get respect?
Did you know I take solace
In disrespecting myself
And hoping my wealth
Doesn’t grow faster than my mental health?
But right now The City says I need more
	I gotta do chores
	Work as a…
		Servant
	Figure it out,
		Pretend I deserve it
And, someday, get to those issues I mentioned before.
	Then I can try not to pout
And think about leaving
This City where it’s always evening.

It’s a lifetime service industry
With no warranty
But I guarentee:
	Eventually,
	This city
	Sinks into the sea
But hopefully there will be
A cloud where you can find me.
And the sun
	Setting right behind me.

Lucy reaches to refill my drink. Her elbow sticks into my stomach and pulls me out of a dream. I’m sure my eyes were closed for only a moment. A ray of sun had crept into the room, past the fireplace, across the couch cushions, over my face — hadn’t I just blinked it away? A long, lazy blink to clear my vision. But now our drinks are drained — gone with the sunbeam — and it is time to remember where I am.

Time to feel Lucy’s elbow.

Time to stoke the fire.

No more light comes through the cabin window. I can see a dull blue sky, thick with jealous clouds reluctantly gazing down on pristine, white snow. Even the trees are white. Through the window they are just silhouettes blocking the sun, now so low in the sky.

The elbow relaxes, releasing me. Lucy tucks herself into the corner of the sofa, swings her legs up onto mine, and spreads the wool blanket across our bare skin. She gives me a satisfied smile and raises her glass.

It takes me until the end of winter to gather the energy to reach for my drink, and then all of spring to pick it up. By the time we’ve clinked glasses it’s the middle of summer and I’ve gone savage with thirst. The glass is cold, the liquid is cold. My lips grow cold, then the sensation spills down my throat. The taste of mint is fall, but I crunch a piece of ice between my teeth and it is winter again.

Ice? When did Lucy fetch us fresh ice? And, when she went to get ice, why did I not get up to stoke the fire? I can see it is almost gone now; it just smolders with a glow to match the colors of the setting sun which peek around the trees and through the cabin window. I am warm, though. The blanket wraps our bodies in a hot embrace which would be almost uncomfortable, were it not for the drinks — the ice.

Perhaps I should have taken care of the fire at some point in the past year, the year I spent reaching. The year since I dreamt of walking outside through a snow-covered countryside. We let it go, though, Lucy and I. We let the fire die while we sip our iced drinks, digging our toes deeper into the blanket.

So the embers fade, and the sun sets.

It is dark, but we are warm outside.

And we are cold inside.

Lawrence works for the Milwaukee Tribune. Lawrence is very proud of his position. He has been with the newspaper since back when reporters wrote up their stories on typewriters.  He became editor of the metropolitan section the same year everyone switched over to computers and digital layouts. When the company upgraded to hologrammatic displays, Lawrence mastered the new tech and helped teach others. And, when they finally switched back to typewriters during the retro-renaissance, Lawrence was happy to step in as editor-in-chief to replace his former mentor who retired out of frustration. Through all of these changes, Lawrence has always helped the Tribune keep up with the Times.

The newspaper went through another major change five years ago with the arrival of Clark. Clark had a human name, but Clark was something completely different: a Fully Upgradable Typist Robot. Designed and manufactured by Adroit Industries, capable of typing 300 words-per-minute across ten different languages, Clark was the ultimate office tool for the retro-trendy newspaper.

The older reporters were skeptical at first, but Clark proved to be a great relief for their arthritic fingers that sorely missed hologrammatic interfaces. The fingers of an FUTR are a beautiful mix of form and function, composed of wood, ceramic, and aluminum. Sometimes Lawrence would just watch these hands at work — they really stood out against the tan polymer that made up Clark’s body. The FUTR had arms, legs, and a torso but no head. Clark does his thinking in his chest, and all expressions of communication are handled by a simple ticker display that stretches between his nipples. Lawrence considered this a bizarre — but very stylish — choice by Clark’s designers.

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Sweat Home, Influenza

(Pun to the tune of “Sweet Home, Alabama”)

It’s been a rough transition to winter. I spent Halloween weekend incapacitated with a cold, and the last week of November has been spent in bed with the flu. This brings us to the fewest stories written in a month so far: just two out of a desired four. Hopefully I can get back on track in December. In service of that, I already have most of the first story written (which I was hoping to finish and release in the last week of November) as well as an outline for The Brass Nerve, Part 7. Also, the Christmas break should provide plenty of writing time.

On a positive note, I finally registered a top-level domain name for Harmless Writing! WordPress notified me that “.blog” domains are now available so, naturally, I said “that’s dumb” and registered harmlesswriting.com which was actually cheaper anyway. Having a two-dictionary-word domain is pretty nice. The wordpress url will still work, of course.

Links

1. Captain Murray
2. Productivity

Where This Guy Blows His Nose

Captain Murray

None of my story ideas were inspiring me, so for this one I just played with the TV Tropes Story Generator. Captain Murray was born out of a Not-So-Safe Harbor and a “Groundhog Day” Time Loop — not that I needed to point that out. Of course, with me at the helm (pun intended) the story dark, brooding, and surreal. That doesn’t make it any less representative of real life. *Intense face — clenched fist.*

Productivity

I, Sebastian, do ride the bus everyday. I rarely talk to raccoons.

I came up with this story when I was riding the bus and my bluetooth headphones ran out of battery. Tragic, yes, but fortunately I was able to distract myself by examining the phones around me and the people attached to them. At first I played with the idea of a creepy hacker seeing someone enter their email password and going on some kind of invasion-of-privacy adventure. That character didn’t seem very interesting, though, so I took it in weirder direction, loosely based on people I see riding the bus all of the time.

I think there are two ways to interpret the transition that happens in this story. First, that the narrator is lying (or delusional) at the beginning of the story, but describes something closer to reality at the end. Second, that everything he says is true, but the story takes place over a much longer period of time. I think I like the second more, but it’s not my place to say what’s right.

I rode the bus today. I rode the bus, and not for the usual reason I ride the bus. Not another day of aimlessly crisscrossing the city, quietly searching for for new dead ends. Not another day that goes unremembered except in a growing familiarity with strangers’ faces. Do they blend together, or have I really seen them all now? Have I avoided the gaze of every lonely pair of eyes in this city? Well, at least those attached to bodies that ride the bus in the middle of the day. Eyes that watch me burn an hour crossing from the ocean to the bay, and follow me with equal disinterest back to the ocean.

My roommate thinks I have a job. This is what I want him to think. I need him to see me tired after a long day of going everywhere but doing nothing, also known as “fuck-all.” Otherwise he will “help” me find a job, which would introduce the risk of me actually having one. It’s not a money thing — the inheritance has taken care of that — he just can’t understand how a person could spend a day unoccupied. Even on weekend afternoons he will stop outside my bedroom door, listening, checking whether I have gotten out of bed. I understand why he needs a constant stream of scheduled activities: he’s an unintelligent, uncreative, and generally naive person. I’m just frustrated that he can’t understand how I am different. The only activity I have planned is another day of scanning faces on public transport, hoping to find a man I can hire to break into our apartment and shoot us both while we sleep.

But not today. No, today I rode the bus with a purpose. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew I had to cross the city and stare out across the bay for three hours. Then I would figure out what my purpose was. As it turns out, my purpose is “fuck-all.” The bay was foggy and I could barely see the water under the pier. I gazed into the cold grey mass for a brief forty-five minutes before I returned to the transit station, pulled a glass bottle out of a recycling bin, smashed it against the sidewalk, screamed, and hopped on the next bus. My seat was still warm from a previous butt.

I was deflated. My determination had left me. Even the itch of glass dust on my fingers couldn’t excite me. I rubbed a bit into my eyes and saw stars. As my vision cleared I noticed a girl had sat down beside me. She was deeply focused on a text conversation. Her long hair blocked her peripheral vision, her narrow fingers barely obscured the screen at all. She was perfect. My peeping senses tingled, eyes and ears ready to devour another person’s private life.

What was her relationship with the man whose name and picture headlined her screen? Mr. Jeff Evans appeared to be about her age — rather young, really. Were they… sexual partners? Was I about to peer through the curtains into their text-based bedroom? Or, even better, would I get to watch them fight? Perhaps she would dump him before my eyes. Then I could get off at the same stop as her. Follow her home, tastefully. Come back tomorrow and wait at the cafe across the street. Return the next day at exactly the right time to buy her a cappuccino. Start some light conversation, making sure I mention all the things she loves that Jeff never cared about. She’ll ask for my number, and we’ll go to the beach every day this summer. We’ll make love on a hot night and at the peak of our physical connection I’ll cry and she’ll realize she doesn’t know me at all and everything she knew about me was just an elaborate lie meant to draw her into my web. I just keep crying until she is blind with rage and cannot resist the urge to stab me to death with the fountain pen I keep on my nightstand. My roommate helps her bury my body.

I had drifted off, fantasizing about what her conversation with Jeff could be like. Their reality bored me: a friendship constructed from a mindless exchange of emoji and TV references I didn’t get. Disappointing, yes, but I was not ready to give up hope: she was young, but her cheeks bore imperceptible wrinkles and scars. These were the ditches between picturesque landscapes. Woodland creatures frolicked amidst the peach-fuzz meadows, making nests in her eyeshadow. They would breed in the springtime, but they would crawl to the scars when the rains came. There they would die, surrendering themselves to decay. I shouldn’t mention it, but her blackheads were inexplicably arousing.

There I went, thinking again. Fortunately my reverie had kept me focused on the girl, so I yanked back to reality when her phone buzzed with a message from a different friend: Jill Layton. My lady immediately abandoned Jeff as a flurry of messages from Jill arrived:

Sammy! I’ve finally found it!

We can finally leave this city!

You thought it was money, but I KNEW that didn’t matter.

The rich still live here. Everyone is trapped.

It looked like Sammy (Samantha?) had to reread this a few times. So did I. Of course, I always knew we were trapped. But I didn’t know anyone else knew. Is this why no one listens when I scream? Do they already know? Sammy began to type a response, but another stream of messages arrived:

You’re coming home now? Don’t. Keep going.

Meet me at the beach.

We’re escaping! TRUST ME.

I love you.

Sammy stared at her phone for a minute, then turned it off and stuck it in her backpack. I She hung her head in her hands and I resisted the urge to put an arm around her. It must be difficult to love a crazy person, I thought. I was glad this was one problem I had never experienced. I was also glad to know that Sammy and I were riding the bus to the end of the line together.

The air was sandy, the ground was salty; I pretended to examine the map of bus routes as Sammy crossed the highway. There was nobody on the boardwalk. I kept a healthy distance and watched two women meet where the sand met the ocean. They held hands and spoke for a while.

The tide began to rise, lapping against their ankles, but they did not seem to mind the cold, wet intrusion.

The sun sank towards the horizon. I saw them embrace, letting the waves rise past their waists.

The sun set, but the water rose. Waves crashed over the two lovers, now just a silhouette of two heads locking eyes. I strained my eyes to distinguish them from the dark shapes that formed in the water.

It got dark. Which disappeared first: the sun, the ocean, the sand, or the lovers? Only I was left at the edge of oblivion. Just me and the boardwalk, dim lights giving birth to the city behind us.

I rooted around in a trashcan before walking home to the park. A cold fog had landed, but it was warm within the bushes. I set out the half-bag of potato chips I had scrounged and unrolled my sleeping bag. Before long my roommate scurried home, bringing a few friends with him. They looked tired — dark circles around their eyes. Help yourself, I told them. No one could accuse me of being unproductive today. I rode the bus today, and not for the usual reason I ride the bus.