Writing Project Assignment from FB Writer's Group found here. "Light and Shade Challenge" "There is a picture, a quotation and a 500 word limit. The Challenge is to take whatever is sparked by the picture and/or the quotation, however tenuous or remote the connection, and see how much fun you can have in 500 words (just between us we never count them as long as we're enjoying things and you are too, but don't tell anyone)." The quotation is: "Be Prepared "- motto -- "Sweetie, I know things have been hard for you lately. You've gone through some changes that seem unfair or insurmountable. I wish that I had more of the tools that could help guide you through this time and help make some of these changes easier. I wish your mother were here, too." "But we need to talk about what's coming and we don't have much time ahead of us. There's a lot of dangerous stuff topside, and I think you have a good idea of what's out there and how to handle it. Unfortunately, I think your biggest challenges are yet to come and they're going to be coming from down here. It's going to be tough to deal with your internal changes, sure, but the bigger challenge is surrounding you now:" "Boys. Men." "The majority of the boys and men that you will meet in your life will be pieces of shit. Hell, I am a piece of shit. The difference between me and the rest of the pieces of shit in the Tunnels, is that I know I'm a piece of shit. I know it and I try to change it. People these days have no moral direction, despite the over-abundance of cults vying for that leadership role. Anyway, boys are growing up without the knowledge of what it means to be a good man. To their parents, knowing how to fish isn't important, so long as you have a fancy rod and reel. Ah, yes. Fishing. Bad analogy. Sorry, it was a hobby that people enjoyed in more hospitable times. - when we had freshwater on land. Before the sunspots. I'll tell you more about it later...there's probably something in our Archives about it, too. I'll have to ask one of our Scriptorians..." "Anyway, what I am saying is that I want to help you develop your lady-arsenal for the onslaught of poorly-raised, hormone-ridden, jackassery that is coming your way. It's my duty to have you ready for whatever comes your way and, unfortunately, the male is your biggest threat. There is no way to avoid it or prevent it. And, to be realistic, there's going to be a moment in your life when you won't want to avoid them. The allure of jackass boys, from what I remember your mother saying of me, can sometimes be irresistible - but that's not always a good thing." "We're going to get into all kinds of good stuff: awareness, self-defense, manipulation, pressure points...We will eventually get to the subtleties - ways that a young jackass can convince you to give up your sovereignty to him - but for now we are going to start at the beginning. And the beginning starts with one word:" "No." I've been Horace's friend for a long time. A long time, indeed. We've spent many close years together and shared much. I was there when he first cried out to the physician who cradled his infant body. I was there when he first strode across the wooden floor of his child-hood home. When he first broke his skin and shivered from fright under the covers, I stood by him. I watched him grow, stubbornly yet surely, into the young man he has become.
We had many good times, Horace and I. The glade and adjacent woods knew of no finer warriors. Goblins and Dryads fell before our great swords of silver and steel. Over time, the number of fair damsels whose lives were saved by our bravery grew beyond an understanding of numbers; like the sprinkled stars in the heavens. Horace and I would talk endlessly for hours into the night. We would ponder the questions of life and philosophy; yet resign ourselves to a constant state of not knowing. I counseled him when school mates alienated him. I helped train him to best the older boys who teased him. I gave him the best knowledge he had about the fairer of the two sexes, that he might balance his bravery with chivalry. I was the closest friend he had and I cherished every moment of our time. But things slowly changed. Horace's parents became stern, once he aged past 13 years, and insisted he participate in both scholarly and religious instruction. As if by capricious providence, he was quickly identified as a prodigy in the realms of Scientific and Alchemical studies and spent hours researching, experimenting, and chronicling. As time passed, he had fewer free moments to spend galloping in the wilderness or conjuring truths to answer impossible questions. One summer he went to a boarding school abroad and there was no space to accommodate me. Every moment was to be spent with his head buried in intense study. I begrudgingly resigned myself to stay behind, at the family homestead, and wander the arena of nature on my own. Countless nights I spoke with him, but our conversations were imaginary. It was his shadow in my memory that assaulted ignorance with me. It felt almost real for a short time as my thoughts of him were vivid and authentic. Horace returned after the hot summer, older and wiser. But it became all too clear that he had nothing to say to me. He entered his home, strode immediately to his growing study, and sealed himself inside. Never before had I been disregarded by him. One evening, as the leaves began to blaze with the end of summer, I approached Horace while he studied in his father's library. I requested he suspend his bookishness for an evening and escape with me. I claimed that the voice of a distressed maiden could be heard upon the listless breeze and we were honor-bound to investigate. He continued reading in his father's wingback chair, oblivious of his oldest friend. I withdrew my gallantry and simply called his name, demanding the respect that was due to a friend, whose status may as well have been antediluvian. Again, nothing. When I raised my voice, the echos slapped back from the stone walls and caused a brief high-pitched whine. Still, he didn't even raise his head. It was as if I were not there. His impudence was nearly too much to bear and I was no longer willing to allow my oldest friend to treat me in such a distasteful manner. I strode over to Horace, seated in his haughty repose, and moved to knock the book from his hands. It was then my horror became complete and palpable. As my hands made to disrupt the distracting tome, they failed to make contact - nay, they passed completely through as if the book were filled with the pages of phantasm. I watched the air ripple and sparkle like the twinkles on sun-kissed ocean waves. I brought my hands to my face and briefly saw the room through them as they sparkled like the air near the book. A thousand shudders lurched through me as a wave of understanding came over me. It was I, the lifelong companion, the true and trusted friend, the ever-loyal servant, who was the phantasm. As this knowledge coursed through me like poisoned blood, I began to wither. How ironic, indeed! Weeks I spent conjuring Horace and his intellect, imagining conversations and contentions. I pretended he was inside my mind that we might continue our adventures despite his absence at study. But the truth was that it was I who were not real. I was the imaginary companion of Horace! My sparkling hands disappeared to thin air and I saw the floor gradually take form where my body should have been. I saw wisps of my form being torn from me by the fall breeze as it slithered through the house. Then, without warning, everything around me quickly dissipated into nothingne--- Where the streams trickle into dust, and the vines stretch no more, there breathes the lurking shadow in the dark. I know not when I came to bear the thought without disappearing into madness, but time, though sometimes a thief, has fiendishly granted a boon of remembrance. I will bear the pull of the void as long as I can in order to convey the inhospitable reality that has violated me. That you have no family, or close relationships that would fall into misfortune, grants you an immunity of sorts. But let's not delay too long. I don't know how wide this window will open and I venture that it will shut fast, lest the bats and locusts may fly through and destroy us...
Norton sat in amazement. His data was flowing across the screen, a downpour of moments. All of the things he experienced through five years of his life flashed before his eyes in a series of equations, charts, and pivot tables. When he pressed on a date range, he saw video or heard audio. It was a piecemeal of media that became a quilt of his history. Early into this display, his mind found a rationalization for the big stuff: Birth, graduations, birthdays, and things of that nature. However, what really troubled him were the moments that were captured that didn't portray a significant milestone: stubbing his toe when he was four, sneezing in the sun while on senior spring break, and even the tossing of every nightmare-ridden night.
He looked over to the Overseer as the anger pushed up his throat. "Norton, do not say anything. You do not understand the context in which this activity is encapsulated. You are observing your story - every single thing you will ever do is being recorded. Everything. Every moment is captured and then stored at Central. Forever. Don't look at it as invasion. You will be immortalized in history - all you need to do is search for your identification number. You'll find anything you want to know about yourself. We all are here. This is the collective. Preserved for all time. Nothing is more glorious." It is the dreams of man that guide his actions
For every morning he peels their wispy tentacles from his consciousness And although he frees himself soon after waking There are marks left behind Here man struggles both to leave and enter the subconscious realm through daydreams He recognizes his innermost desires and his deepest fears He both salivates and recoils Because he acknowledges that what he remembers is just a glimpse And fools himself by thinking that his dreams are ether Through his life a man's dreams motivate him to great or terrible moments They usher him to heights and depths that he would otherwise move past in ignorance Yet man pays no homage to his dreams He claims them as his own and tells his world of his fantastic mind But this is not the case - all of man's dreams are mine and mine alone The tendrils a man sees are only what his mind can endure For it is not possible to withstand the inescapable pull of eternity My fingers stretch through the timeless Cosmos My fingerprints are upon the cortex of the human collective And the human mind must develop familiar or fantastic explanations Otherwise, he must behold time and space in it's true form Man is not ready Though a time will come when his dreams will become his reality Man will observe as he is meant to: without the shields of his five senses The ageless corners of space will unfold before him And I will be there In the bleak and darkened depths of the deep dwells a creature of blackened matter.
It is older than the stars that bore the constellations of the ancients on distant worlds in long forgotten epochs. At the beginning of this Cosmic age, it presided over infinity. And from its antediluvian lips oozed forth the unholy voice that carried words of Creation. In a timeless void, beams of radiation and energy rang out and blasted its will over billions of light years. Through the immemorial and abysmal stretches of time, the Universe whirled and seethed at its whim. Until it was imprisoned by the mystic light of unending dawn. It was shut off from the laws it created and cast into oblivion. Surrounded by the cocoon of space and time, it floated in perverse solitude. As with all things that dwell in such eldritch blackness, it tested the boundaries of the prison. It knew that upon the right moment, in the right age, it would breach the sucking void and move its hand across the Cosmos once again. So that it may unleash its deluge of chaos and destruction; to cleanse the Universe and begin anew. But for now, it searches for the thinnest portion of reality to escape through. And there will be no doubt to its authenticity once it is loose upon the Universe again. It, whose name and substance are forgotten to boundless antiquity. But when the time approaches and it finds a way, its voice will ring through the Cosmos once more. And all of reality will remember. "Identity is everything. It's a well-known fact: your identity is you. Of course, your identity is crafted, it is built, it is manufactured. It is not real. No, the identity is a substitution for the self. It is projection. It is the shell in which the ātman cowers as it shivers with fright and insecurity. The identity is a lie written on paper to give the reader something that it desires, wants, or feels that it needs; rather, it is what the self thinks the reader desires, wants, or feels that it needs. In summation, the identity is the equalizer of expressionless language. And, because of the inaccuracy of human communication, the identity, in many ways, is more real than the true self - the ātman.
"So when the identity becomes the self through perception and misunderstanding, then the true self is rendered inert. Useless. Non-existent. The true self becomes the lie and must exist solely to continue building the shell around itself in order to survive. It wraps the lie around itself and nurtures it with it's own life force. It is swallowed. Encapsulated. Surrounded. Truth is reduced to an energy source that enables the facade." "Is this a perversion? Not one tot. Not one tittle! For how can a truth be a truth unless it is experienced? How could the majesty of the Sistine Chapel be beheld if it were covered with a mosaic? The mosaic might be beautiful and wonderful indeed but it would not be the real ceiling of that chapel, would it not? However, if one were not aware that the mosaic were a veneer then what would it matter? 'There is the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by Rubio Mossel of Spain. Who is Michelangelo? There is no Michelangelo'." "This must seem a tall order for one such as you. Granted, what I am teaching you is not what you've been made to believe in your life - for you do not exist to serve your identity. But that is another, more advanced lesson. What is necessary now is that you must not let those around you feed upon your identity. Do not let others determine who you are. Do not let them peel your shell from your self. Our society has not prepared your Truth for the blinding force of reality: it has cultivated you as an object to be used. Your self, your Truth are vulnerable children in the den of evil. Your self, your truth are prey. This is why your identity is important and why your identity is your real truth. For without your identity, you are nothing. You cease to exist. When Humans go to Outer Space, they wear a suit to protect them from the vacuum of the Cosmos but that suit is not them. If you remove that suit, they die. Such is the way in our society, young one: Carefully cultivate and guard your identity, for without it you, and your self, your Truth, will die." “I’m glad we’re together, Maria. We make a damn fine team.” he said.
They leisurely walked through the park, hands clasped. The warm sunlight intertwined with the breeze that carried the songs of birds. It smelled like a warm pie made of grass and wildflowers as they strolled. She looked at him deeply, almost able to see his aura glowing around his gentle body. She didn’t try to suppress her smile as it pounced upon her face. “I don’t ever want this to end, Zach. To be here with you is Heaven.” “Don’t worry, we’re safe here. No one knows.” Charles looked around him, taking it all in. He shook his head, looked down at his feet, and snorted disapproval. Tendrils of smoke and fumes danced around them and carried the stink of burning earth.
"If I wanted your approval, churl, I'd have asked you for it." Mr. Reeve scoffed. "Just be thankful that your woman is safe. As I told you, her inclusion was necessary." Reeve looked around and let out a satisfying sigh. "It is too bad about your family, though, churl. I would offer my condolences, but we both already knew the outcome before-hand, didn't we? I wouldn't want to patronize you." Reeve barely contained the smirk on his face. Charles looked up and burned holes into Reeve's face with his eyes. "I have been your servant my entire life and have served you faithfully, Mr. Reeve. You owe me, at the least, the courtesy of acting human." he said. "No, churl, I do not. I am not. The sooner you accept your station, the better. That goes for all of you. This city was just the first. I will give you your first real choice, churl. You may continue our work or you can simply...move on. Is this human enough for you?" Reeve said. "Then I choose to move on. I would like to live my life as I see fit." said Charles, proudly. Reeve placed a hand on Charles' shoulder. "My dear churl, if that is your wish, I'm afraid I have to consider it granted." said Reeve. He reached into his stiff jacket with his free hand and removed a small, rectangular device. It was a hand sized, brushed silver stick with two large buttons.. It was like a simplified remote. Mr. Reeve gazed over the remote and sighed again, though this time sounding fatigued. He looked up at Charles and said "Churl, do you know that this is the sixth time this has happened? Six times I have had to request a replacement in your line. I must say I really think we should reconsider your designation." Charles opened his mouth to ask a question but, before he could say anything, Mr. Reeve pressed the blue button on his remote. Charles' eyes rolled up to the top of his head and he crumpled to the scorched ground. Mr. Reeve sighed then pressed the green button on his remote, then raised it to his mouth. "Anna, this is Reeve. Would you kindly request a replacement for Delta-015.6? Oh, and please issue a troubleshooting order to Headquarters." Reeve paused. "Wait. Strike that, please. Submit a request to decommission the 015 series instead. I'm at my wits end with this line. They develop sincere feelings more easily than the older models--and send my regards to Ikthys and Martin. I know they've worked hard to satisfy my requirements but they are simply doing too well." Reeve looked down at Charles' melting body and shook his head with disappointment, then placed the remote back in his jacket. "So what is troubling you? Something to do with your dreams, if I remember my assistant's notes, correct?"
"It's plain and simple, doc: I am emotionally isolated from everyone I know. I mean, I love and care about those around me but always feel an internal separation of myself from them. It's like that brain disorder...what is it called...? When you feel like you're dead or in a dream even though you are physically alive and awake? Do you know--?" "--Yes, I believe it's called Cotard Delusion or Negation Delerium." "Right. My trouble is that despite my best efforts I am unable to get around the wall inside my head. Being participatory requires focus and attention; it just doesn't happen normally. I've been told that I am selfish and self-centered, or narcissistic, but that simply isn't the case. It's not that I care only about myself. My life would fall apart without those in my life but I've been told that's only because they make my life easier to deal with. I just know that there are things that I should say, do, or ask that show I care...but nothing pops into my brain. There is nothing except the constant playing of music inside my mind." "What have you done to address this on your own?" "I have to remind myself to do or say things in order to let others know that I am engaged in their lives and not in lost inside my mind. But the truth is that I get lost inside my mind without thinking about it. I over-analyze things and once thought that I had OCD...but I am disorganized and don't count things arbitrarily. In fact, I love surprises and new things. It's like I have pieces of OCD. I shouldn't have to remind myself to be involved in someone's life. It isn't right." "That might be due to your attention deficit disorder. Have you been taking your medication for that?" "No. I can't. When I take it, I do stay focused and am more engaged, but my brain feels like a piece of meat. It feels dead and lifeless. I really feel like I'm dead. How do I know if I am dead or dreaming?" "Robert, you certainly aren't dead but I think the dreaming part may be a reasonable explanation." "How so?" "Perhaps when you were unintentionally over-medicated as a child, it somehow reacted to your brain's chemistry? You were placed on rather experimental behavioral medications during your childhood; which wasn't out of the ordinary at that time. They just didn't test the medications like they should have. ...It could be that when your brain was growing, something in those medications changed the way you process your environment? It's difficult to say with you being so much older now, but I can assure you that you are very healthy and alive amongst us. Let's go back to the music in your head. Is it music, like your favorite songs or are annoying songs that repeat?" "No. Spontaneous music. Things from single instruments to entire symphonies of random, improvised music. It's hilarious, actually. I am a failed musician that has never recorded a single album, yet music is in my mind at all times." "I see. I have heard of some cases where patients with OCD or Lyme Disease experience this kind of thing, but it's more an auditory hallucination. We might see about starting you on some medications that aren't so invasive to your conscious activity. Perhaps you could take something at night, before bed? I may have to look into this a bit more. What's the average number of hours that you sleep?" "..." "Robert, are you listening?" "What? Oh. Sorry doc." |
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