Life, strands of acid. That's all it's ever been. To think that rivers of ink and blood have spilled over the 'mystery' of the trinity.* (Dawkins) The bane of existence. The golden law, the magisterium of life has finally been unraveled within its fabrication. The years following the desertion of Earth became the age of limitless power. We harvested the secret, and we became Gods. Gods of our own destruction: the curse of men.
Our inhabitance on Earth ends in the year 3243. The evacuation only took so many, the dust took the rest…it stifled our lungs. We've been in orbit ever since.
Twenty years later the experimentation began. Our resources were dwindling, and from the desperation we re-birthed the meaning of slavery. The Alchemist created droids, hybrids from various organisms, and usurped whatever remained of the Floating Republic.
These half beings were sent back from orbit. They mine for us, and we test their intelligence, their capabilities and entertain ourselves in their terror. Earth has been nicknamed "The Coliseum". As they worked the human species continued to evolve and became aware of Waves-how to control the illusion of what is. The Manifest, the ones controlling Waves, overpowered the Alchemists and took their place within the developed Hierarchy. They claimed true Creation was found in purest form solely in their practice. Humans could now condense energy into whatever design they please. This occurred in the dawning of the thirty-fifth century.
The current Hierarchy is devised by the pureblooded humans, the Manifest and Alchemists, who lead all. There are then the transmuted humans followed by the transmuted animal droids and serfs. Transmuted humans such as myself have been infused with the DNA of an animal: it marks our status. Although it gives us greater physical capabilities, we are almost entirely restricted from access concerning the art of Manifestation or Alchemy. Both have an Argot. I was after that Argot.
We were censored from the right of truth, so I infiltrated the system. I was caught with the power of eternity in my palms, and that is where my story began.
***
A smirk lingered on my face as we fell away from the station. I had a sore back from being kicked into the shuttle and was being given a dirty look by my escort, but all the same it was there. I cheated. The information was in my head permanently. The one thing the Hierarchy was kind enough to give was a hint of the power of Waves, just enough to control your own body that is. I knew how to manipulate my cells-but I went beyond what we were taught-I could memorize anything. I could retain a book in a way so that I could play back the past in my mind and every little page would pop up with the very secrets they so preciously kept. HA. The situation was anything but funny, but at least I had that. I guess I was a bit drunk off of adrenaline and the situation had me in a hysterical sense of humor.
I was going to earth where the real game's played, I was about to face a world of Hybrid droids that all wanted me DEAD.
Droids are all pawns. Chess pieces. The Hierarchy's been playing with their lives for the past twenty years. It's been a constant technological warfare between the Alchemist and the Manifest, always trying to see who can create the most powerful THINGS. And we use the droids to test 'em all out. They're the subservient race in every way-the Alchemists that create them keep them stupid. Stick an organism in some contrivance or another and you got a drone out of garbage. Beautifully twisted.
The lucky ones stay in orbit, the majority go down to Earth to suffocate in whatever remains of the Dust Years. Give them guns and weapons. Let's see if they can organize the anarchy outside of the mining zones. Let's see who lives. It's Rome all over again, in a sense, just one huge play where each actor meets their separate bloody end…only this is bloodier.
As I got deported in that tiny box of metal I started to sober up. I could here the whistling noise of entering the atmosphere. I turned and made a face at my escort, might as well return the favor, and gave him a one-fingered salute. The hatch opened, and another swift kick in the side sent me stumbling onto the crumbled territory. "Don't be too much of a sweetheart!" I yelled back sarcastically as the door shut. I sat on a rock and started to bash the cuffs against them till I heard the satisfying clang of the metal snapping apart. "No way to treat a lady," I growled, massaging my scathed wrists.
I was getting the bad end of everything, 'cause I wasn't one of them. I was a criminal. And they lo-o-ove criminals. More target practice, no penalties-just a bounty. The prize? You get the next shuttle up to Orbit. Fuck my life. Really. A droid would have to be completely mad not to lunge with a rabid ferocity at anything along the lines of "getting the fuck off this planet".
You can't see a horizon, not really. The region they kindly dropped me in happened to be the one still choking on dirt. I wrapped my face in cloth. Dying by dust has to be one of the more gory ways to go. It slowly fills your lungs and clots your insides into mud. What follows are episodes of insanity, intense dehydration, the coughing of blood and if you're lucky, death will come nice and early stead of dragging on for say…twenty minutes. No thank-you, I think I'll live for now.
The dirt's scolding hot and the air's all parched and dry, I was already tasting some sand in my mouth...I needed to find a legit mask, and soon. This all takes me back to the times I'd watch this world on a flat screen-the images broadcasted everywhere of a place where droids slaughtered one another and grouped into primitive tribes. Everyone laughed; I wasn't laughing. The title on the screen started to flash in my mind, over and over: The Coliseum.
(To my sci-fi friends, wanted to try something a little outside of my comfort zone.)
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"The Garbage Man"
The stench of the house was overwhelming. It was the smell of old clothing, cigars, and garbage. The door swung open, unlocked, and a rush of cold air washes over you. When you step into the house you have to cover your mouth and nose. Heaps of trash so high they had accumulated halfway up the dirty windows and left a filtered, nauseous light to creep into the crevices of each room. The carpet was stained in filth; mire had burrowed its way into the scalp of the rugs, turning them into a moist taupe gray. Black smears of dirt ran down the walls…spiders crawling frantically away from the intruder: you.
Garbage, garbage…garbage. You haven't seen the man so much as glance out his grimy window in days, the garage was shut tight and his bed of flowers were withered. He babied those flowers, you knew. They were all Dahlias. In all the years you've known him they were always only Dahlias. You tread carefully through the house and the stench thickens and reeks of something more.
You have never actually been in the house before. He was a rich man, your neighbor: he had bought three separate houses paid in full, renting them out, and had invested in a small and thriving business. Or, he had until a year ago. He wasn't old, the man, he was in his early forties. You had seen a relative visit only once, his sister, and she was a mean hag that would shriek at anyone that got too near to the front porch. You saw her for two months, then she was gone, and you hadn't seen her since, thank-you.
You find a sealed door you know to be his bedroom. You know this because every other one is ajar, and none have a bed...or any furniture for that matter. A heavy drone is audible from the other side. You turn the old brass handle and give it a gentle nudge. The room is swallowed in darkness so you hesitantly run your hand against the wall and feel for a switch. You touch it and flick it on, snatching your hand away from the surface the moment you do. The light crackled into the glass bulb with a sickly yellow. At first, you think you're looking at a black writhing animal. It moves as a mass, and then you realize they are all flies.
His mouth is open, your neighbor, and his eyes are rolled back into his skull. His arms and legs are rigidly assembled on the bed, the sheets crumpled on the ground. The bed itself is covered in more debris. You find the man's oily fingers gnarled into fists, he's holding a gold watch; it's the only thing you've seen clean and shining in this waste. You think the muffled ticks you're hearing are from it, but you aren't sure you can truly hear past the flies.
Police cars start to pull up an hour later-half of them are there just to see the spectacle of a man that deteriorated in a house less attractive than a junkyard. You've already left knowing you've seen enough. The image of that man flashes in your mind as if an old black and white film were playing. See him dead and rotting. The thing you can't get out of your head though isn't the disgusting state of his life, but the clock, ticking ceaselessly against the flies. It was like those Dahlias he'd kept, the only scrap of beauty in his world. The metal was bright like fire compared to the dinginess of every other object.
You think for a moment what happened in this man's life, then decide you don't care to know.
(Gross I know, I got the idea in ROP when Nahale was telling a story about this guy they found dead in a house piled with garbage. Couldn't help myself, it sounded too dam good...or bad...whatever.)
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Unspeakable
The desire in me is a ghost in my heart, the steps of my past and strides of my future. How can I describe this? Nothing as tender a sense has every touched my soul, and I have no name for it. It's an ethereal emotion, one that may surpass the ponderings of a kingdom in Heaven, because it delves into something deeper-life, breath, and mortal eternity. Unrequited longing perpetually beats in me.
I feel like I lost something somewhere, somehow. Was it some beacon I ignored? Was it some street I didn't walk? Why, why, why? Every time I look at something beautiful and endless and remember memories happy or sad it'll render me incoherent to the world. It's so much stronger than joy and misery.
I'll be standing underneath a street lamp, the artificial light shining in half-radiance when it'll well up out of nowhere like a heart ache. It's a déjà vu of possibilities, so it's a flash of what-ifs. I can barely hear distant laughter; maybe it's something I've yet to find? Warm embraces and faithful promises; can something so amazing really exist? Could I really feel that loved by friends and family alike? Could I really ever feel safe, like the life of a different me implies? I want to say "yes", but all the hurt in my present says no, never, not you. "Prove me wrong" I beg to something, "Prove me wrong". It makes no sense, how can it make sense? I'm still trying to explain the best I can.
This is how time tortures me. It's a dully intense pain. I'm missing something. I feel it all there: the places I will go and precious friends I will meet if only I make all the right moves. If there is a god, seems like he made a promise to me-long as I can guess where to be on the receiving end.
I can trace the existence of happiness in the air-but I can't seem to grasp it. All the people of my future I haven't seen…although I've met them…in such a strange intangible way that it leaves me shaken. They are wisps, all of those memories to come or paths I could have taken, they're all ghosts of my heart.
It hurts me knowing there are only so many roads I can wander. It hurts me just knowing anything in general. It irritates me to think I might've missed the love of my life by a few minutes, a few acquaintances, or a few words. And what if I miss the chances yet to come, what if I met someone and let them slip past me? I can't take it, yet I do. Here I am, still living, and from this anticipation I pursue the situations that might bring me to this bliss. It's so much more than joy and misery. An unspeakable feeling, I'm sure.
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The Past Better Gone
A soft buzz resounded in her ear as the phone rang. Her heart raced, hoping to hear a woman answer. Instead, what she had feared for the past several months finally happened.
"Hello?" He said with a dark tremor. The girl flinched. She hadn't heard his voice for so long, the sound was foreign to her. Before she could bring herself to hang up she heard her own stammer, "Is…is Michelle there?" A curt, "yea," and the phone switched hands.
"Hello?" Michelle said.
"Was that him..?" The girl asked.
"Oh…hon…yea, it was." Michelle recognized her previous would-be daughter-in-law.
She sucked in air and forced herself to keep talking. A façade of joy crept purposefully into her voice. "How are you Michelle? What's new? Oh and I wanted to ask when Jess worked-my mom and I have been dying to go back to the restaurant but I didn't want to run into him. She says "hi" by the way," she added quickly, hoping her nervousness didn't show.
A pause.
She couldn't resist. "Did-did he know it was me?"
"Yea, he did." The mother replied sympathetically. "He says hello."
"Oh…tell him I say hi back…and tell him congratulations."
She hears murmuring in the background.
"I did honey, he says thank-you."
"Okay…okay…"her mouth had gone slack, her eyes were moist. "What about Ann, is she still working there?"
"No, I think she has another job now."
The girl needed to end the conversation.
"…Alright then Michelle, I'll give you a call later this week and show you those photos I was talking about-take care!"
"Love you hon."
"Love you too!"
A sob escaped her lips after she hung up. Her mom reached over and squeezed her hand. "Let's go get some dinner, yea?" The girl nodded feebly, and her mother started the engine.
Stepping out of the car was stepping into deep water. She saw the cracked window of when the entrance door had a bullet burrow into it. She saw countless nights of taking out a trash can at closing time and joking with Ann. She could almost smell the burning tobacco and Shisha drifting in the air. There was music, and laughter, and Joe working the Hookah lounge swearing Farsi under his breath. And there was Jess.
She stared into the dark glass that mirrored her and saw a girl of a different life, one fumbling to tie a bright red apron around the waist and start a long shift. Her hand pressed against the entrance.
The door swung open, and she exhaled. He wasn't here, she told herself, and neither was Ann. The counter was empty, but she knew from her days of working there that a buzzer had gone off in the kitchen. It was probably heavy with steam unless they had finally fixed the washer. It was a dead hour, so only one or two customers were seated and eating.
A petite Chinese girl walked out from the back. Her eyes widened when she saw the girl. "Hey Nicole." The girl said with a grin.
"Hey…how are you doing?" Nicole's eyes said more than her words, they looked as though they were surprised to ever have laid them once again on her previous co-worker.
"I'm pretty good-Joe in?"
"Yea, he's working in the back, I'll go get him."
The girl heard a curse word or two, and a few moments later out emerged Joe himself. A giant smile filled his thin face, crinkling the corners of his dark skin and showing through his brown eyes. "Ayyy girl, how's it goin?" he said in his thick Middle-Eastern accent. His half finger scratched the corner of his chin, the lopsided grin lifting the girl's spirits some.
"It's been going alright, Joe." She replied.
They stared at one another for a moment when the girl's mother walked in behind her. Joe gestured to the girl to follow while her mother placed their take-out orders.
Outside, he lit up a cigarette and took in the smoke, leaning against the tile counter. The girl watched the embers on the lighted tip, and gazed silently at the man. "So how have you really been?" he said, staring through her. The girl looked down. "Do you know what happened…?"
"With Jess?" he snorted, "I was the first to know. That dumb boy." The girl turned silently away. Joe sighed, "Between you and me girl, he didn't want it. She did. And now he's covering her ass pretending he wants it, too. That bitch, she didn't take her pills for two weeks and said nothing-that's how it happened." The girl remained silent.
He looked at her a while longer then started off in a casual demeanor, "You know I know this guy. Eighteen. Blue eyes and bit of blonde hair, about…this tall," he said, waving his hand an inch above his head. "real good guy. I'll be leaving definitely in a couple of weeks, you should meet him, we'll all go out before I fly back home."
The girl smirked at his talk, "You trying to set me up, Joe?" She faltered, feeling a heavy tug in her heart. She suddenly looked up, straight at him, saying with a cracking voice, "It really hurt there for a while…Joe." Then she was hugging him, it took everything to hold back those tears. "It was so dam hard." She repeated. They embraced, he had been like a father to her, and right now he was the only one who truly understood just what had happened.
"I know girl, I know. I'll set you up with a good guy, a good reliable guy." She tried to laugh again, and gave up. "You'll call soon?" was all she managed.
"Promise." And she left.
As the silver Honda pulled out of the parking lot and the sign of the restaurant grew smaller and smaller, she already knew what she was fated to do that night. She would try and sleep, sit up and fall back down until she grew impatient. She'd finally get out and crawl towards a drawer in a wooden cupboard on the far side of her room.
Trying not to wake anyone up, she would inch it out, reach in, and wrap her hand around a cool tin container. The girl would cup the tin close to her heart, kind of afraid to just open it. She finally would.
There were three things inside: a rose, one that dried into an unusual amber hue, a solid gold medallion with her name and date of birth etched into the back, and a fortune saying: "You will overcome many obstacles." There would have been a fourth object, but she had given that back long before. A white-gold ring: a dead promise.
She would sit there in the darkness, letting the light of the moon play onto each of these three objects, seeing the phantom one nestled beside them. She would trace her fingers across the metal, rub the paper between her fingers and dangle the necklace holding her medallion in front of her face. Without thinking, she would touch her throat, where a silver chain would sometimes secure that lost ring around it.
She would forget time, and disappear into a past of hurt: A past where she was afraid of a color and number, where no day felt secure, where she couldn't walk outside in the light of the morning. It was a past where she fell hopelessly in love, where her childhood and dignity died, where her world was run by drugs, weapons and deceit. It was the past that had taken from her a last innocence: thoughtless optimism.
Finally, when the moon was shining on the other side of the night sky, she would decide to place the tin can back and close the drawer. The girl will then whisper a thank-you to her last love for giving her life back-no matter in what way it was done. She would smile at the world, made new before her eyes.
Her dreams of the future had returned to her, the possibilities were again limitless. And she was wiser. Or so she thought. The girl would fall asleep knowing that her pain was her reward, and that when she opened her eyes in years to come she would remember the first time she really knew what "free" was: knowing you don't need a second half. It was like a quote she had once heard: "Men set us free, one disappointment at a time." It never was so true.
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