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July 12, 2005
Volume 3, Issue 12
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Comments
Gene splicing doesn’t have to be invitro. With a little pain and money you can splice a few chromosomes into your matrix and reap the rewards. Throw in mental programming and a conditioning routine and you can shape yourself anyway you please. No more obesity, shyness, or bad breath.
It’s the other side effects they don’t tell you about that are tough to live with. Look at me, I’m trim, fit, and I’m no longer a wallflower. But everything tastes like cardboard and I can’t remember my violin lessons.
Can’t make an omlette without breaking a few eggs, I suppose.
Posted by: TheMightyEmu at July 12, 2005 7:42 AM · Permalink
Our cell is a mosaic of leaden shadows containing only Vargas, myself, an impenetrable door, and a small hole in the floor for our waste. Scant daylight peeks through the single slit far above as if even light does not want to be here.
And, of course, Vargas is whining again.
“So why don’t you repent and get it over with?” I ask. “Then you could have all those things back.”
“Because, my friend,” he replies, stroking his oily beard. “Like you, I am not guilty.”
That is the problem with the Inquisition. It seems that only the innocent die.
Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 12, 2005 9:45 AM · Permalink
The campfire licks out with tongues of yellow and orange, making our shadows dance across the huts and trees behind us. I lean back on both hands and stretch my legs out.
It’s the usual ritual; everybody describing the things they miss most back home. We’ve done it so often that I have all the words memorized. We all lost a lot when our lives changed. But I like to think we gained a lot, too.
At least my little buddy gained a lot. And from the sound of Ginger’s ecstatic moans coming from a hut, she’s getting something, too.
Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 12, 2005 10:05 AM · Permalink
The way he spoke made one thing apparent. He was deaf. They told us that he had learned to read lips and how to speak by retraining his vocal chords, lips and tongue to move together, without actually hearing the results. Like learning ballet in the dark. The blast had deafened him permanently, and blew a whole in his respirator line, filling his lungs with burning chemicals, destroying the sensory organs in his mouth and nose. His food was now just tastless paste. He was “lucky” to keep his vision. They bring all the probie firefighters here; but just once.
Posted by: Tanker J.D. at July 12, 2005 11:23 AM · Permalink
"You never played the violin," I said quietly.
"What are you talking about? Of course, I did!" he replied.
"No, you didn't, and I should know. Forget all that food nonsense as well. You've never even tasted food."
"What on earth are you talking about?! If I didn't eat, I wouldn't be here."
"You aren't here. You sit there on the bed everyday, talking to me. But you're not there. You exist only in my head. I think, therefore you are."
He looked at me as though I was insane. Either way you look at it, I suppose I was.
Posted by: No One of Consequence at July 12, 2005 11:25 AM · Permalink
I'm the only one who still visits grandfather, after the download. Mom... well, to mom he'd died, and I talk with an 'ungodly abomination'. Dad stays away to keep her happy. And my sisters never cared much about family.
But every Sunday I make time to log onto the interface for the Old Ghosts' Home and spend hours talking with him- or with the software emulating his brain, depending on your views on Continuity. He tells me about the wars, or living through the Galveston Event, or his musical career. Living, dead, or in-between, he's the wisest man I know.
Posted by: Jeff R. at July 12, 2005 11:41 AM · Permalink
“You can hear the music anytime you want, you know that” I said to him.
“I mean playing the music. Holding the violin in my arms, feeling the tension of the bow against the tension of the strings”
“we can arrange for you to feel those things through the senses of a trained violinist. It’s as simple connecting his jacks to your analog input array. “
“Certainly, you can make it seem like I am experiencing it, but it’s not like having your own hands.”
“Oh, shut the hell up” I said “or I’ll put the box over you again.”
Posted by: og at July 12, 2005 11:48 AM · Permalink
It is hard visiting grandfather when I bring his meals.
His eyes are red and his fingers move back and forth in forbidden patterns.
“We saw but refused to see,” he turns to me, “I miss the only mistress that answered all my ministrations with sweetness … my violin.”
“Grandfather! Do not speak of forbidden things!” I pull my burka closer around me, “You should be grateful your family honors you with hiding you.”
His weeping follows me into the hall as I lock the door. He does not honor it is now 2054 and we in al-Ahmerikha are at peace.
Posted by: Darleen at July 12, 2005 12:59 PM · Permalink
The imp threw itself writhing onto the hard, smoldering rock and sobbed; a broken, gasping sound more nauseating than pitiable. “That was the last one,” he cried.
“The last one?” blasted Satan. “What do you mean the last one?”
“There are no more, Master,” wailed the imp. “There will never be any more.”
Satan glowered and banished the imp in a burst of excruciating flame. Back in Georgia, somebody else played Satan’s last golden fiddle. He strained pointed, misshapen ears to hear it one last time.
…chicken in the bread pan picking out dough
Granny does your dog bite no-child-no…
Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 12, 2005 1:06 PM · Permalink
"Yes, good food and music, but - " The bespectacled man stood in the center of the dusty arena, surveying his catch. I crouched behind the column and watched. "Well," he said finally, "at least I still have my books."
Then something caught his eye. It was a stray tome on the ground - perhaps a misplaced volume of Shelley? I could not tell. The man leaned over, and slipped, and then came the horrible sound of splintering glass.
"Wh - why that's not fair. There was time now. It's not fair. It's not fair!"
I retired to my own corner of the apocalypse.
Posted by: G-Do at July 12, 2005 1:53 PM · Permalink
Couldn't help myself.
Posted by: G-Do at July 12, 2005 1:56 PM · Permalink
"Yes, it certainly does suck, not having a head." The professor squeezed his stress-beanie in frustration. "I mean, what kind of design flaw is it to put four of the five senses - and the brain - in one place? Talk about putting all of your eggs in one basket, eh?"
"You could probably still play the violin," one student suggested.
"It's no use, Suzie," he said through the tinny voice-modulator. "I tried it; I just don't have the balance any more."
I wanted to make a pun about getting someone to give the professor head, but the words just wouldn't come.
Posted by: G-Do at July 12, 2005 2:04 PM · Permalink
“Music.” The strains of Canon in D in my head, the violins skimming and floating across the high notes. “I wonder,” I said, "if bugs can hear music?”
He looked up at the dank dark cement walls and the giant cockroaches that clung to the side watching us rot, “hey, you fucking bastards, you should of heard me play, I could make you weep little roach tears.”
His shaggy head slumped down between his thin shoulders, ”if I had known it would it end like this, I would have learned to kill with my hands instead of plucking catgut strings.
Posted by: Amalie at July 12, 2005 2:35 PM · Permalink
The last thing I remembered was the muzzle blast of the shotgun. Talk about embarassing, I was killed by a cliche. An honest to God farmer with a shotgun. Damn, she looked eighteen to me.
I woke up here in Hell. I was wrong about that too. Of course so was Dante. No demonic imps, no burning pools. There was torture, but it was mental, not physical.
Of course you all know that. Here we sit day after day in an endless group therapy session.
If I have to hear that idiots bandcamp story one more time, I'm gonna puke.
Posted by: Gahrie at July 12, 2005 3:32 PM · Permalink
~ snap ~
I had asked him to stop muttering about his music hours ago. I picked up the piece of wood.
"Here's your violin, pal, eat this"
I swung.
Hard.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
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okay.
tired.
all
done.
Soon enough Peace returned to prison.
Though I hear there's no more orchestra.
Posted by: BumperStickerist at July 12, 2005 3:40 PM · Permalink
“So as you will see, Dr. Ablemind, this is a strange one.” I continued as we moved down the ward corridor.
“I gather that he has never played the violin?”
“As far as we know, that is correct.”
“And, he still eats food like a gourmand I take it. So he is a bit daft, why the mystery?”
“You’ll soon see.” I replied as we entered the cell.
A grotesque figure lying on the bed muttered, “We loved walking the beach, Lydia and I. More than anything I miss the walks.”
Ablemind, his face now ghostly pale, gasped. “I see.”
Posted by: don at July 12, 2005 6:50 PM · Permalink
If my morning paper ever tells me of the finding of a body of an unidentified man of about forty, hair sandy, face long and sad, whose death resulted from a violent beating, I shall know that Morks has met his destined fate.
For, no matter what you may have seen, Morks has seen something stranger. Whatever you have done, he done something more thrilling. Wherever you have been, he has been there before you, and under circumstances of considerably more danger.
And whatever you may own, he has owned something rarer.
The fate reserved for men like Morks is brutal in the extreme.
Posted by: Ardsgaine at July 12, 2005 9:51 PM · Permalink
The conversation draws me in: clearly, this is a man in great pain. You can see it in the way his brittle fingers clasp the wine glass: gently, respectfully, but … ahhh … painfully.
The sips no longer counter the searing pain, yet still he enjoys each last nip.
I wonder whether I will still enjoy a tipple at that age or whether I shall drown in the bottle long before.
It doesn’t matter. I must focus on getting through the meal.
“A final time: To music and inspiration!” he announces loudly, rising slightly from his chair.
No...
To you, old man.
Posted by: JH at July 12, 2005 11:18 PM · Permalink
"The punishment for your crime is the loss of one of your senses. You have one day to
choose."
Incarceration had proven to not be much of a deterrent to crime. Removing limbs wasn't
either since the advent of powered prosthetics. The one thing that couldn't be repaired was sense removal. It kept most people in line.
He thought about it. The enjoyment of food was too good to lose. He liked to read, so
losing his sight was out. Loss of touch was loss of sex. So he chose hearing.
Now he couldn't even remember what music sounded like.
Posted by: david at July 13, 2005 3:34 PM · Permalink