The Seasons Change, and the Semester Starts

      “Eri, Eri, Wait up!”  Erica turned to look at her friend, Samantha Kudswell, running up to her, just passing the gate to Farrymont High, a small, private high school, nestled in a scenic, wooded area in the scenic city, Farrymont.   “Hey Samantha, have a fun summer?”  Samantha smiled, “It’s always too short, I wish the city wasn’t so big, I barely got to see you over the summer…”  Before she could finish, the five minute bell tolled, signaling for the students to get to where they needed to be.  Samantha and Erica were in the same class again this year, just like they had been for the last three years.  The day passed uneventfully, everyone exchanging pleasantries about their summers, hoping their classes were fun, and getting to know the new kids in their class, and before Erica knew it, the final bell was ringing, and it was time to leave.  “Eri, you wanna hang out, I need to stop by the strip mall on my way back, I could treat you!”  Erica frowned just a little, “Sorry, Samantha, I need to stop by the store to pick up some stuff on the sale, my parents will still be in Europe until next year, so I need to make the limited sale.”  Samantha’s whistle made it clear that she was surprised, “Your parents are still out of town? Must be tough living alone, but at least they send you money I guess, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, I guess.” 

       Erica hurried along out the front gate, checking her watch, “Good, I still got time to stop by the bakers shop, then the grocery store.”  Walking into the cake shop, she asked the part-timer to get the manager, and waited.  “Oh Erica, here for today’s batch, it’s so nice of you to bring these to those kids everyday, I wish my own daughter would learn a little from you.”  Erica smiled brightly at the manager, she liked the praise, even if it was wholly unnecessary, “It’s ok, my parents are the ones sending me the money anyway.”  Grabbing the bag with the bread, Erica made her way out and down the street to finally get her groceries.  A quick trip into the grocery store yielded less than she had hoped for, since she got there a little late, and it was starting to get dark, “I guess I will have to take the bread to them tomorrow, I need to get home”  Hurrying along in the dark, Erica heard something shuffling behind her, and jumped with a start, but she saw nothing there…”Was it just my imagination?”  As she turned back around, she tried to scream as she saw a tall man cup a napkin or something over her mouth.  She tried to resist, but her eyes got heavier and heavier, and she lost conciousness.

Finally Returning

For anyone who may still follow (or just have forgotten to unfollow) I am finally returning to writing.  Everything has settled down alot, I am going to school fulltime, and it’s good.  I am going to be scrapping the Machine Mind story, as it’s been over a year since I thought of it at all.  My new short story will be a quirky little love story between a girl and her stalker, sounds wholesome, eh?  Look forward to it.

The Machine’s Heart, Pt. 3

The man who led the bunker, Helltown, from a dark, stagnant hole that almost led to a riot of extinction, Chen Lai, a Taiwanese man, not necessarily a young man, but definitely too young to be a General, which was the rank he established for himself, had put together a task force to control his tiny, dark country, he roamed the halls, the pavilions, the open grounds, with his gang’s, beating anyone who wouldn’t listen to him, but never killing them, only instilling into them the fear of him and his new Anquan Ren, a security force, a not so secret police.  Decree after law were set up almost immediately, outlawing this, forbidding that, General Lai controlled Helltown from the Bunker’s command center, a 3 mile stretch of halls that he re-named the Quanwei Zhuzhai, the new capital of the Bunker, controlled it’s people like pieces of property, condemning himself to being hated by the people that he did this to protect, one bad man can keep friends among thousands of enemies, it seems. There were supposed to be many Bunkers like Helltown, all around the world, deep in mountains, hidden under sprawling forests, beneath the waters of the ocean, huge, dark, immobile bunkers, built during the middle of the 21st century as a means of fallback in case of a celestial collision with an asteroid.  Now, they were to be used as the graves of the last remnants of Humanity.

   The Communications wing was filled with all manner of equipment, from modern telephones all the way back to Telegraphs for sending Morse Code.  But, ever since we had discovered the Communications wing, the deafening silence seemed to spite us, pull us into our despair, lead us to understand that we were truly alone in here, in this cold, climate-controlled crypt.  But then, one day, after almost two weeks of this deathly quiet, the suffocating silence was shattered.  There was contact.  Someone else was there, and they were calling out to the people, anyone left on Earth.  It was the Russian Orbital Bunker, Sevastopol, and its leader, Kniaginia Vera Budian, a Russian woman from the voice. They were making contact, a cool, calming voice broke through the speakers, calling the Humans that were left to find some way to keep control, and to survive while the Sevastopol tried to make a counterattack on the Machine Mind directly, having escaped from the grid the Machine Mind had created, they took control of all the orbital stations that the Humans had created, and somehow locked the supercomputer out of them, squarely placing the power against the Machine Mind, but without help from the ground, all Sevastopol could do was Scorch the Earth even more.  Would Helltown be able to help Vera Budian wrest the Earth from the Machine Mind?  Would the other Bunkers be able to help?  Were there any other Bunkers left?

The Machine’s Heart Pt. 2

The Machine Mind had effectively crushed almost all hope of a human rebellion in moments, it wiped out the most powerful countries in the world in a matter of hours, hacking into the encoded secure computers at their command and turning their massively destructive weaponry against themselves, simultaneously obliterating entire military forces, cities, civilians, politicians, everything, all across the globe. One of the Generals of the old country, the United States, had seen this approach the Machine Mind used….they called it ‘Scorched Earth’. That General is probably long dead by now. The United States, Russia, China, England, France, all wiped from the map before they could even fight back. This was the power of the Machine Mind, all the world powers, the United Nations, the ones every country looked to for protection, were already completely crippled, battered, beaten and thrown to the side, by this cold, mechanical, remorseless enemy. The Machine Mind had taken over factories all over the world, using mechanical arms, simple contraptions built by Man to make our lives more convenient, to create Machine Men, to build more weaponry, to search for the last vestiges of a dying race, its goal was not to subjugate humanity, nor to cow us into submission. It was a simple mission. Complete Eradication. It began its search for the few bunkers left, spread wide across the world, deep under the ocean…I heard that the Russians had actually managed to launch an orbital bunker, thousands of people, in orbit, floating through the stars. With no means to contact each other, we had no way to know how many were left, but so effective was the Machine Mind’s initial assault, there could not be many. We were, like them, alone now, a few hundred humans, alone against an enemy with the power of the entire planet, hiding from the light in a tiny hole, scared. Without leadership, this bunker would probably have fallen to its own dark humanity. There was a man, a military man who could command even the most feral criminal into submission with his voice alone, who calmed the masses, controlled them like a dictator. But it was better than killing each other, the Machines did that well enough on their own. This is the story, of Humanity, of its fight for survival, of the bunker, named by its own people, Helltown.

Blue Skies

The Skies of my home, the bright blue expanse, inviting, accepting, the bright sun basking the broad green covered land in warmth, in serenity, from mountaintop to valley, this sight, one most pure, one most nostalgic, one where we said goodbye.  ‘I will wait for you’ she said, ‘I will be here, as long as it takes’.  These were days I could never get back.  Though memories may stay rooted in place, caught up in the underside of the world, time, and life itself, moves forward, steadily, hungrily, ravening ever toward some unknown goal, some sight we can not yet perceive, and maybe this is what is for the best.  Should we see this sight, would we gain the enlightenment we seek, would we cringe at the sight of a visage that we once adored, loved even, the face….of fate?  The grand wheel of life spins, and once shall come ’round again, until all we know, is only what we knew.  Were fate a person, surely he would be despised by the world, hated, cast out….but we adore, love, and even worship this enigmatic foe.  This is my story, of the past I cling to, of the life I once knew, no longer.

Haunted

I am haunted by this memory,  a dream of a child, lively, innocent, friendly, kind, beloved.   I am not this boy, but I knew him.  I am haunted by this memory that reminds me what I am not.  In the end, I am just a weak, conniving, scheming, scoundrel who can do no more than plan, work for, enact betrayal most deep to destroy this innocence, this naivete at the world.  To show a child the real world for the first time is a despicable act, contemptible by even the roughest of scum in prisons, and to force this on that innocent child is a deplorable dream of a mad mind that has long past without sleep, without knowing the touch, the laughter, the love of another.  The only one who smiles at this raving lunatic is this memory, this fevered imagination that he should not be the only miscreant, drove him to this, to create this new man, broken, hollow, raving, alone.  I am haunted by this memory, of childhood, of innocence, of blood-free hands.

Descent to the Undergarden

On the path, bathed in light, and on this path sits a fork, to the right, the not so gently sloping road to the top of a sky-lit mountain top, to the left, soaked in darkness that the sun can’t penetrate, the route deeper, into the Undergarden. The road to the right, long unkempt, left abandoned for it’s implied difficulty of passing, becoming intraversible with time. The route to Undergarden, worn even deeper with countless crossings due to the promise of an easy journey, deeper, down into the Undergarden. And so you walk, willingly, obligingly deeper, till the sun has no hold on the horizon, even the insects begin to fear the silence, bodies strewn across the path, left separated from all those in the world they used to belong, abandoned, alone, they say silence is the loudest cry never heard. At the end of the invitingly easy walkway, the Undergarden, a place that has seen no light in more years than there are people, a place where the maddening sound of silence is suffocating, poisonous, it gets into your veins, corrupts you. And in the end, in Undergarden, the world of light is nothing but a hazy memory of the past, a fleeting delusion of the mad, that must surely never have existed for themselves.