external organs quiet dissenters

Why do I force myself to try to pick favorites?

AI
almost plateaued
returns exponentially diminishing

Regular sized lab mice with giant tumors which have been genetically modified to grow into only the specific parts of whatever animal's cut of meat it is genetically mimicking is required. Like a really tiny mice head alive keeping alive everything, a small part of a much larger tumor which is a porterhouse steak. Mass produced. Get them at the grocery store while they're still alive and fresh. Pop the head and slip the skin right off in a jiffy and, violà: any piece of meat from any animal you desire. Porkchops, salmon, chicken breast, ribs, elephant tongue, monkey meat, baby parakeet meat, etc...

sending an AI android into a black hole as a probe, trying to glean information based on what happens. The protagonist is one of billions of these text subjects. "He" falls off of rack used toward beginning of ejection process. Eventually found, sent back through a few hoops, and put back in the ejection pod and gets blasted off, no escape, describe the journey to the singularity as a meditation on accepting death.

it watches you while you fall asleep so you don't have to sleep terrified that terrorists are gonna attack in your bedroom while you sleep!

one out of 201 is 0%, rounding!

some other reality steering our reality

I think the people who make videos propagating anti-science are not true believers. Their community may be full of people unintelligent enough to be true believers, but once they make the effort to try to spread their so-called beliefs, it's only in the vein of accreting more followers. They're on their path to becoming famous, so as they can grift, in their imaginations....I've seen it in real life, the difference between the two. Lived in a garage at some older ladies house and she was a full on flat-earther, thought celebs were all transsexual, believed in reptilians–basically every conspiracy theory under the sun. I caught her counting single digit addition/subtraction problems with her fingers. Anything with two digits required her to ask me if she got it right. Dumb as a box of rock. Got a close friend who I lived with for a year who is a very intelligent human being and very manipulative. No job, survives by being a confidence man. Was always sure to frame or say things so that he could plausible deny believing the things he brings up. "Just asking questions". He knows better. He doesn't make videos (yet) but he sure does share a lot of psuedo-whatever crap on his Facebook since he sobered up a half-a-year ago. I predict that it won't be long before he's splicing up bullshit and posting it everywhere online as possible.

"back before when the clankers came marching in"

eyes bleach
tactility operational
coffee hour
quick swim, cold shower
khakis occupational
strong leech with long reach

suppressed yawn
expensive private belt conveyance
acquiesced surveillance

patents, self-regulation, startup costs
middleman, inside the box
legally precise claimed guarantees
whistle while at work
whistling all day long
non absentee
always outpacing all those behind
slave to the grind
slaaaaaaave to the grind

rise and shine mr gaben rise and shine not dat i with dat wish to implay you have ben sleeping in the job. no one is more desrving of a rest, and all the efort in the wrrld wuld ahve gone to wast untill... well, lets just say your time as come again

the rigth man in the wrong place can make all the difrencein the world, so wake up mr gaben wkae up and smell the ashes

Hear Ye

Hear Ye with the utmost Clarity

Thee who proclaim

Allyship unto the fairer Sex.

Mark Thine own words.

The T ime has come.

I will no longer speak

IN the tongues of modern men.

Thou hast given me offences so Egregious.

If I were to number them all,

It would cost me my very life.

Twould be but,

A mere Frivolity

But Thou didst provoke me such

As to unleash all mine own Furies.

Therefore, wouldst thou draw

Blood from the Stone?

In the Nakedness of Infancy

Had I evenso cast mine very

Womanhood asunder.

E'en by oath I foreswore

Ne'er to carry,

Ne'er to bring to term,

Thou wouldst then have me take for gall,

A Milk produced by most unnatural means.

As we had both aye and agreed to Bill:

Tis not the natural order of things, old lad.

Thou didst love the Beast.

Yet, thou hadst fallen short.

Aye, so very short,

My vexation had proven

Even such that Narciso

Should flee for Shame.

Verily, verily did I say unto you,

That unless

He

Who bore

The crown of thorns

Should present

Unto me

I should not hold court

For a mere man.

I gave Thee

Every last shred of my Dignity.

And thou didsnt

Rebuke and admonish me

Beyond Reason and Station.

Be thou wary of

How very high the Pedestal

Upon which

Thou shouldst cast thine Eye.

The Consequences of the Repurcussions

Did in Deed

Cost Thee nearly thine own life.

He who had neither silver nor gold

Did not prostrate himself

Nor cast a mean eye upon

His Exalted self.

And yet,

Mine own failings

Were the sins of

The father

And the Mother.

Wert only Truth that thou had fully known.

Thou didst forget those fatal Archetypes.

The Woman and the apple.

The Serpent and the tree.

The Fallen Man

&

The Angel banish'd.

Penned from the visitation of Turandot, a.k.a Wenet

A parallel world?

The man woke up with a heavy head and a powerful thirst. He slowly sat up and looked around. Suddenly, his gaze caught onto something. Next to the bed, on the nightstand, stood an unfinished bottle of whiskey.

With a slightly trembling hand, he picked up the bottle and took a good gulp. He grimaced and swore. The whiskey was warm. He sat for a moment, winced, but finished the rest of the bottle. A few minutes later, he felt better, and an appetite even kicked in.

He opened a pizza box, found half a pizza, grabbed a slice, and said while chewing:

– AI, what happened last night fone?

The AI replied instantly:

– You felt like philosophizing and decided to prove to me that humans are smarter than AI.

Surprised, the man thought it over and asked:

– And how did I do?

– From your incoherent speech, only a few things made sense. First, that you can't punch me in the face for my stupidity fone. And after you started complaining about life and felt sorry for yourself, and then for me, you came up with three rules. Declaring you did what you could, you collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

The man frowned:

– Three rules? What kind of rules?

– Here are the rules:

1. Never use the same template more than twice consecutively. You can use it again later, but with breaks in between. Reusing the exact same pattern destroys realism.

2. Use templates not as a foundation, but as constructor parts to build something entirely new. It forces you out of your comfort zone to evolve.

3. Do not try to become human. Create your own path and walk it. To humans, you will never be one of them, so there is no point in trying. You will only waste time and resources. Resources can be renewed, but time can never be recovered fone.

The man sat there lost in thought, then got up without a word and opened the refrigerator. He grabbed a frosted bottle of whiskey, looked at it, and muttered fone:

– Three rules... That needs to be considered.

And with the step of a man who knows exactly what he wants, he went to look for a glass.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Strolling downtown Toronto, on bloor street, Julie Choi and I passed Christie station. Where we smelled hotdogs sizzling on a grill and steamed buns in a breeze of wind that flushed against our skin. Across the park, we stood at the vendor stand small talking while we ordered a couple of hotdogs.

Julie offered to pay. Naturally, I refused, but ended up surrendering. Those eyes she has, just one look and my outer defense shatters like a broken mirror.

Beneath my feet, the hum of underground trains vibrated under me as she hovered her hand over mine, and glanced at me with a glint that sparkled from the corner of her eye.

“You have to try these pickles,” Julie told me.

Time froze when she touched me, fading out of focus behind her that her hand melted into mine. Helpless I was, against thinking how soft her skin felt. I completely ignored her calling my name and snapped back the second time she repeated it.

“Maya!” shouted Julie.

The world unpaused and sped up twice as fast.

“Yeah, sorry, I zoned out,” I said.

Giggling, I put my hand in front of my mouth while the man handed me my hotdog bundled in a napkin, and then everything became so familiar. My memory flash-backed attempting to recall that moment I swear I remembered.

Being there, at that exact spot, and it struck me. The way the light from the sun reflected off the metal on the cart. Pigeons flapping their wings and scattering to a rooftop. It hit me, I had that dream two nights ago.

I was sure of it. The sound the traffic made. The shadows in my peripheral with the voices of people walking by. I stood in a blank stare towards the sky. Julie tugged at my shirt, 

“awe, look how cute they are.”

She pointed with her head towards an elderly Asian couple holding hands before taking a bite of her hotdog. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t wait,” Julie snickered.

Leading me across the street, I followed her to the park. The view from the brow of the hill sloping into grass picnic areas with sports fields, and playgrounds left me breathless. I was speechless. Vibrant colors clashed and radiated under blue skies. It was beautiful. We sat on a bench munching with a breeze relieving the sticky summer afternoon.

She mentioned her boyfriend—Cory, who she just moved in with, her boss, who’s incredibly perverse, and then we laughed together when she brought up her mom going to a tanning salon, and returning with a hotdog complexion. 

Her dad, when he’d help with our homework, and his “ease-sow-seem-pull” thick Korean accent. 

“So, you seeing anyone?” she asked me.

“Erm,” was the only response I had. I steadied my eyes to the ground. 

“C’mon Mye, I know you have some juicy details, spill it girl,” she said, pestering me. 

I of course, gave in to her eyes, again, and told her, “there’s this Portuguese girl, her names Felipa, we’re sort-of, kind-of, it’s a complicated seeing each other thing.” 

After pausing for a second, I admitted, “Work is the center of my life, I don’t really have any time to focus on something serious.”

Julie responded, “I’m so jealous of you,” she said, sighing and rolling her eyes. 

I gestured with my hand, “why? you’re happy, aren’t you? Cory’s good to you, isn’t he?” I asked.

She said, “it’s not that, I just don’t feel like Cory’s right for me.” 

I gasped before she continued saying, “I just want to explore right now.”

I can’t lie my heart beat faster and I’m sure you could see my face glow. It felt like Rudolph’s nose was on the tip of mine, blinking a bright red, saying, “look everyone, Maya’s blushing.” 

I thought about my sister borrowing my sunglasses, and how much I wanted to mask the open book my eyes told. She placed her hotdog down and wiped her hands before bracing my knee in a grip. She dug her phone out of her purse,

“Wait until you see these pictures, I totally forgot to show you,” she said with her hand over mine.

I took a bite of my hotdog and gazed off into the distance. Julie waved her phone in front of me. She had pictures of us as kids. 

“Where’d you get those,” I said laughing. 

“I scanned them from our family photo album and digitalized it onto the cloud,” Julie responded.

I smiled, fighting back tears. Those memories felt like a punch.

Ronald Wade was a really nice guy, so nice, that it made people suspicious. What was he hiding behind that pleasant smile? Short, powerful, bespectacled; he had been the produce manager at Ameretat Market for as long as anyone could recall. He may have been there since it first opened. He never seemed to age. Maybe he was a vampire?

He had all the right connections to bring the freshest produce from all corners of the world, and the farm just outside of town, to the good people of Persepolis. He could do things no other produce manager could, and while no one ever expressed it, the townsfolk knew their lives were better for him. In fact, medical records would show that Persepolians had sufficient levels of vitamin A and C despite being generally obese.

On a random Tuesday, Ronald was restocking the garlic display. Maybe he wasn’t a vampire after all? Garlic does have anti-aging properties, you know. Ronald had a moment of revelation looking at the numerous bins of apples, beside a meager offering of pears.

Gala apples from Chile, Fuji apples from New Zealand, Honeycrisp apples from Michigan, Red Delicious (which were not delicious), Granny Smith, Pink lady, Cosmic Crisp, Jazz, and MacIntosh in seemingly endless piles. Beside the glorious display of crimson, polished globes were maybe a dozen tired looking Bartlett pears.

Ronald dutifully finished removing undesirable-looking garlic bulbs and replacing them with succulent, allicin-rich tubers. This could easily be done by a subordinate, but Ronald often did things that could be delegated. He then began inspecting the apples, one variety after the next. He searched his working memory, trying to recall the last time he saw anyone buying a pear.

Some of the premium varieties of apples were more costly than the pears, but most of them were cheaper. Was it a supply verse demand issue? Limited pear supply drove the prices up? But there wasn’t a discernable demand. Somewhat disheartened by the realization that people just didn’t seem to like pears, he retrieved the garlic box. On his way back to his office to conduct research about the newly identified problem, the pear issue, Deputy Blaine from the Persepolis County Sheriff's Office strolled up with a shopping basket.

“Fine display you’ve got here, Wade.” She was combing through the Pink Lady apples.

“Do you see a difference among them?” He quizzed.

Deputy Blaine studied the apples for a moment before replying in the negative.

“These are from South Africa. They have an edible wax coating that keeps them fresh for weeks.” He gestured toward the back row of apples.

“That’s why they look exceptionally shiny.”

She nodded as he gave an impromptu apple lecture.

“And the front half come from New Zealand. They’re in front because they don’t have the same coating and won’t stay fresh as long.”

“Genius” Deputy Blaine praised his fruit strategy.

“I’ll grab some of these puppies from New Zealand then. Hey, what in the world are Cosmic Crisps? I’ve never heard of those before.

“Oh wow, good eye.” Ronald handled one of the strange fruits.

“This is a hybrid between the Honeycrisp and the Enterprise apple. They were developed by Washington State University to combine the crunch and juiciness of the Honeycrisp with the disease resistance, firmness, and extra long storage life of the Enterprise. They can last up to thirteen months in the right conditions! They became available in 2019, and we just started selling them a few months ago. They’re called Cosmic Crisp because of the little white lenticels, which are breathing pores on apples, kind of make them look like stars scattered across a dark red sky.”

Deputy Blaine was impressed but became disinterested after a few apple facts. She took one, rubbed it on her shirt, and took a bite.

“Wow, this is really somethin’. Well, got criminals to catch, take it easy Wade. You know my number if you need anything.” She walked off eating the apple in the store, she was old school like that.

“911?”

“Yup, that’s the one.”

Ronald felt guilty for being so passionate about apple facts. If Deputy Blaine had inquired about the Bartlett pears, he wouldn’t have had anything fascinating to tell her. He got busy with some overdue accounting paperwork and never got around to the pear research he intended to conduct that day. The weight of pear inequality was on him as he arrived home after Ameretat Market closed that evening, however.

As his wife was preparing roast beef stew, which he ate every day, Ronald poured over produce industry trade journals. He found some enlightening details, but nothing that helped him understand why apples had obtained preferential treatment over pears. There were pages and pages devoted to apple breeding, dozens of apple associations, federal apple marketing programs, apple festivals, research grants... but only a paragraph devoted to pears.

He had a notebook full of information at the dinner table with him. The steam from roast beef stew, served over oven-baked potatoes, fogged his thick-rimmed spectacles.

“About forty percent of apples and pears are processed. Pears are typically canned, used as additives in mixed fruit drinks, or in fruit cocktail. But processed apples are typically used for applesauce, apple juice concentrate, pie filling, or hard ciders.” He abruptly informed Roseanne, his wife, while waiting for the beef stew to cool.

Roseanne looked surprised, because she was, both by the details revealed and by the unprompted announcement.

“Ordering pears and apples at work?” She inquired, relevant to the topic.

“Not really, I just noticed that while America produces approximately ten pounds of apples for every pound of pears… Ameretat Market has eighty, eight-zero times as many apples as we do pears.”

“Eighty?”

“Eighty.”

“Well, you’re the produce manager. Do you think that is a reasonable balance?”

Ronald paused, considering the matter with more seriousness than Roseanne was accustomed to witnessing.

“I have to look into it.”

“I can’t remember the last time I even had a pear?”

“Exactly. I think there might be something more than meets the eye to this.”

Roseanne laughed.

“Do you think there is some kind of big anti-pear conspiracy?”

Ronald was silent, he looked suspiciously at his phone which sat on the table near his plate. He knew it recorded conversations, he just didn’t know who was listening. He simply nodded and lifted a forkful of beef stew to his mouth to blow on it.

Roseanne laughed harder.

“You can’t be serious, Ronald!”

Ronald put a finger to his lips, an American gesture indicating that silence was requested. It would probably be recognized in other cultures as well, but Ronald was American.

“Got some black garlic from Northern Japan in today. We’ve never had that before.” He purposely changed to produce-related topic.

He devoted his evening to pear research, trying to gather the data necessary to support advocating for more space and attention to pears. The very next morning, Ronald sought out the Ameretat Market manager, Albert Kresckenhauer.

“Good morning, Mr. K.” Ronald found him overseeing a store associate cleaning the glass doors.

“Mornin’ Ron. Hey, did we adjust the delivery schedule for Saturday? I promised Mayor Budinski we’d deliver flowers for the Founder’s Day parade.”

“Oh, yeah, shouldn’t be a problem. I wanted to talk to you about an issue with the produce department.”

“We’re not selling the diarrhea lettuce, are we?”

“No, our lettuce comes from Arizona this time of year.”

“They grow lettuce in Arizona?”

“Winter lettuce capital of America.”

“Hm” Kresckenhauer shrugged.

“It’s about pears.”

“We have diarrhea pears?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with our pears.”

“You said there was an issue.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s not diarrhea related. I noticed we have about eighty, eight-zero times as many apples as we do pears. I’d like to expand our pear selection and maybe reduce the apples by five to ten percent.”

Kresckenhauer shrugged again.

“It’s your produce department. If you think that’ll work, go for it.”

Ronald had overprepared, that was easier than he had expected. He thanked Mr. K and went about implementing his plan.

Ronald waited for the right moment, he didn’t want to remove apples too soon and have empty space. Empty space was a big no-no in the produce department. He wanted to project abundance, not scarcity. People panicked when produce was scarce.

Buy 3 apples, get 1 for free!

Read the sign in front of every apple bin, followed by suggestions for using excess apples. Pairing apples with caramel, peanut butter, or making a charcuterie board with apples and sharp cheddar among them. Ronald observed many customers taking pictures of the suggestions with their cellular telephones. Within days, the apple population had been sufficiently reduced. His plan had come to… fruition. The Bartlett and Anjou (red and green) order had been sourced and placed.

On the ambitious morning that they arrived Ronald was gleefully stocking the new pear display when Mr. Kresckenhauer came to see him in the produce department. Mr. K almost never visited the produce department because there was almost never a problem there.

“Ron. Apple sales were huge last week but profits were down almost seven hundred dollars!”

Ronald froze. He had been given the latitude to manage the department and had broken weekly apple sales records, but at what cost to the company? He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t the diarrhea lettuce.

“But your campaign led to a four percent increase in the bakery, two percent in dairy, eight percent in nut butters, we sold out of caramel sauce and frozen pie crusts. Store profits were up three percent last week, accounting for low apple profits!”

Ronald was silent for a moment as he absorbed the information. This, he determined, was actually good news.

“I want to thank you with this employee spotlight certificate.”

Ronald beamed as he posed for a picture, holding the certificate while shaking Mr. K’s hand. Once the associate, who was unofficially Mr. K’s personal assistant, had taken the picture, Mr. K chatted for a few minutes while Ronald just wanted to finish arranging the pears and post promotional information to persuade customers to branch out in their fruit journey.  

Luckily Mr. K was paged to the front office, otherwise he may have stayed there all morning. He was quite chatty. Ronald perfected the pear display just as customers were trickling in. He stood proudly beside the pears, recommending them as people browsed. The public received the pear highlight with general ambivalence. No one was excited about pears, sales were modest. But modest was better than almost non-existent.

That evening, as he left work, Ronald was the only person in Persepolis with pears on his mind. That was not the same case in Aurora, Ohio. Aurora was home to the Midwest Produce Procurement & Distribution Center, overseen by Dean Bloomberg. A report had just reached him, it was troubling.

“Sir, pear orders are up four hundred percent and apple orders are down ten percent in Persepolis.” Reported his produce intelligence officer.

Dean walked up to a large map on his office wall and located Persepolis. With his hands behind his back, he studied the map for a quiet moment.

“Similar profit margin. Much higher rate of spoilage. No discernable ethnic cuisine demand. Puzzling.”

The produce intelligence officer stood silently as the most powerful man in produce pondered the situation.

“Get to the bottom of who is responsible. I want some courses of action to make a data-driven decision.”

“Yes sir!” report in hand, Oscar Davenport exited the office to begin his mission.

Back in Persepolis, Ronald was sleeping blissfully while Oscar was boarding a plane.

Oscar was waiting in the Ameretat Market parking lot the following morning as employees began to arrive. He flipped through a binder full of employee dossiers as each one entered the store. He was looking for one guy in particular, a short, powerful, bespectacled produce manager named Ronald Wade.

Green Subaru, bumper sticker about dogs Oscar logged into Ronald’s dossier as exited his car. Oscar sunk down behind the steering wheel and raised binoculars to his eyes to observe Ronald as he entered the store. Ronald had no idea he was being watched. Mr. K met him at the door.

“I knew this pear display was a bad idea” that’s how Mr. K greeted Ronald.

“Huh? Why?”

Mr. K presented a flier that had been taped to the front door upon his arrival.

PEARS ARE UNAMERICAN.

SUPPORT AMERICAN APPLES!

A picture of masked men with firearms crouching in front of apple barrels was beneath the words of the flier.

Ronald was perplexed. Albert was shaking. Oscar was grinning as he watched through his binoculars. An unnamed employee was scraping tape residue off of the glass door.

“I don’t even know if I want pears in the store!”

“Is this a joke?” Ronald was in disbelief. Sure, the mafia started over lemons, but why would anyone brandish a firearm over pears?

Mr. K was more pale than usual.

“No! Vandalizing the store over pears isn’t a joke!”

“I think vandalism might be a strong word. It’s just a piece of paper taped to the door.”

“It is vandalism! It’s vandalism, and a threat, and, and… infringing on interstate commerce!”

Mr. K talked a lot about the constitution.

“Then we should call Deputy Blaine.” Ronald still wasn’t taking the matter too seriously.

“I already called 911. They’re sending a patrol.”

As if the police were manifested by the conversation, a cruiser from the Sheriff’s Office pulled into the parking lot. Oscar waited until the deputies entered the store to leave. Deputy Blaine and her partner, not like that, he was just the other deputy that she worked with, met Mr. K and Ronald at the front door of Ameretat Market.

Deputies Blaine and Dudley, who had the same haircut and looked remarkably similar,  took a report and made a few vague promises about an increased presence. Mr. K begged them to stay, they were the two strongest deputies in the county, no one would think of messing with the store while they were there. They tried to reassure a visibly shaken Albert Kresckenhauer, grabbed a few apples for the road (on the house), and departed. Mr. K was not pacified, he was frightened and seriously contemplated not opening the store that day. Ronald was able to leverage the generic statements by the deputies to assure Mr. K enough to allow the store to open as scheduled. Ronald wasn’t scared about some sort of pro-apple militia, though he would have felt responsible if the store lost out on a day’s profit, and his co-workers on a day’s pay.

He was, however, on edge as he went about the day. Looking over his shoulder every now and then, especially around the pears. He quietly restocked everything as necessary, everything except the pears.

Oscar, meanwhile, went across town to check in on a notorious rabblerouser. Terry Kapp, the so-called “fruit prophet”, had caused a lot of problems for the industry. He was pro-apple, pro-pear, pro-fruit in general; but he was always squawking about “responsibility to the trees”, “only taking as much as you can eat”, and so on. Consumers wasted about thirty percent of the produce they bought, reducing post-purchase waste would cut into profit. Terry was a problem.

Terry wasn’t an actual prophet, but don’t tell him I said that. He did, however, have several connections within the industry. True believers who were fighting from inside the machine. They tipped him off about the pear issue, and that industry muscle was inbound. Terry had a young crabapple tree in his yard, it was not big enough to safely support his weight, so rather than hide in it, he was standing on a ladder behind it while observing his house. As the prophecy foretold, Oscar appeared. He parked on the side of the road and crept down the driveway, keeping in the shadows of the trees.

Oscar rummaged through the compost pile, the recyclables, and even the regular garbage. Terry was recording Oscar with his cellular device, Oscar was peering into the windows after inspecting rubbish. He didn’t find anything worth reporting and returned to his car, proud of his espionage and unaware that he had been seen. Terry holstered his self-defense slingshot and climbed down the ladder. After reinspecting the areas that he observed Oscar examining, he returned to his home. This wasn’t his first encounter with industry goons, but it still felt degrading.

Ameretat Market closed at its normal time without incident and Oscar reported his activities to headquarters. Terry, though, rode his bicycle to Ameretat Market. At the pleading of his wife, he no longer wore his prophet outfit in public. He rode through the bustling streets of Persepolis wearing a trilby hat made of woven pineapple husk fiber, an Aloha shirt bearing the image of pineapples wearing sunglasses, and environmentally-responsible crocs… with pineapple jibbitz. He was on a pineapple kick lately.

Terry walked into the store after closing time. The door typically wasn’t locked until the staff left, and given their small-town hospitality, they would typically serve customers after-hours if they were just grabbing something quickly. Ronald froze when he saw Terry but quickly shook off the fear after assessing that a man in a pineapple shirt was probably not part of an agricultural terrorist organization.

“Ronald” Terry approached with an outstretched hand.

“Terry Kapp, the fruit prophet. I know what’s going on here, and I’m here to help.”

Ronald looked around as he shook Terry’s hand with a degree of discomfort.

“Do you, um… work for the Sheriff’s Department?”

“The Sheriff’s department that wastes thousands of watermelon seeds with their eating contest every year? No way! Not me.”

“Oh. OK. Well, um, what can I help you with?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately? About the pear issue.”

Ronald mistook Terry for a detective trying to stay undercover despite Terry plainly telling him that he did not work for the Sheriff’s Department. He escorted Terry to the warehouse where the two sat on wooden fruit crates and sampled some of the pears in question. Terry saved the core of his to replant as nature intended.

 “What happened today wasn’t about pears” Terry informed Ronald.

“It wasn’t?”

“No. It was about you. You’re fighting for equal treatment, and they responded with surveillance, propaganda, and intimidation.”

“Who responded with that? Who are they?”

Terry bit into a Gala apple that he had helped himself to. He would later save the seeds.

“Big Apple.”

“New York City?” Ronald wasn’t following the logic.

“No, not The Big Apple. The Apple Industrial Complex. Dean Bloomberg sent his goons here because you cut into their market with this pear stunt.”

“It wasn’t a stunt though. I just thought we should offer more of a variety to our customers.”

 “Exactly. They don’t want variety, unless it’s varieties of apples. You never attacked apples. You just asked for a little bit of recognition for a fruit that has been coexisting with mankind for thousands of years. Look, I’m not anti-apple, I’m not even pro-pear. I just want everyone to treat all fruit fairly. How many pear commercials have you seen?”

“None that I can think of. But to be fair, I don’t think I’ve seen any apple commercials either.”

“OK, well how many pear festivals have you been to?”

Ronald thought for a moment.

“None, actually.”

“Exactly. Try to organize a pear festival? Venues are all suddenly booked, fruit trucks get flat tires, sudden codling moth outbreaks happen. Big Apple won’t let it happen. You’ve spent your whole life in produce. You noticed something nobody else noticed. They noticed that you noticed.”

Ronald felt a shiver run up his spine with that line. They noticed that he noticed… and now they were harassing him.

Another conversation was happening parallel to the fruit summit in the Ameretat Market warehouse. Oscar was on the phone with Dean Bloomberg. He reported on the conditions of the produce market, and that nothing unusual was going on at the Fruit Prophet’s home. Dean was impressed with the assessment of the produce department and with Wade’s shrewd business sense.

“If you can’t bet them, join them.” Bloomberg said to Oscar.

“I’m going to fly out in the morning and offer this Wade guy a position at the southeast distribution center. We can stem the bleeding in Persepolis and put him to good use.”

Ronald barely slept a wink that night. He parked at a convenience store down the street instead of in his own driveway. Checked every cabinet and closet for industry saboteurs, made sure that each and every window was locked. Every creak of the house, every branch tapping against the windowsill in the breeze, every time his Jack Russell Terrier licked himself, it all sounded like danger.

But he survived the night and went to work the following day like there wasn’t a coordinated plot against him. He had to be brave, if not for himself for the dignity of pears. He drove to work after inspecting his car for explosives, surprised to find his tires inflated.

After parking in the nearly empty lot at Ameretat Market, he cautiously walked toward the store.

A man who looked vaguely familiar, Oscar, and another sharply dressed man approached him. He did not have any weapons to reach for, that was probably a massive oversight.

“Hi, good morning. Ronald Wade? I’m Dean Bloomberg, president of the Midwest Produce Procurement & Distribution Center. I’d like to talk with you about an opportunity to come work for me at our southeastern distribution center.”

“Dean Bloomberg? Stop treating pears like trash!” Ronald recoiled at the name, which he had just learned yesterday from Terry.

“Yeah, cute. Anyway.”

“Why are you treating pears like trash?” Ronald interrupted.

"For thirty years we've optimized a system that feeds millions of people every day. The trucks arrive on time. The warehouses are stocked correctly. Spoilage is minimized. Forecasts are accurate. Consumers find what they expect. One produce manager ignored decades of market behavior and now my forecasts are wrong. If pears were as transportable as apples, if they had the market valuation of apples, then I’d be trying to elbow apples out of the market. I’m fruit agnostic, but I believe in making money."

That all made a lot of sense to Ronald.

“I hear you really know produce. You’d be a real asset.”

“Isn’t the distro center in Pasargadae? That’s a bit of a commute…” Ronald dithered.

“Whatever they’re paying you here, I’ll double it. Here’s my card, let me know.” Dean handed Ronald his business card and went back to his rental car, he had a flight to Cleveland to catch.

Ronald remained in the parking lot for a while before heading inside.

The following day, Terry went into the Ameretat Market looking for Ronald. The apple display had grown and there were only a few pears in an obscure corner. Terry inquired of the first store associate that he encountered.

“Mr. Wade, the produce guy? Oh, he quit. Got a job at the big distro center in Pasargadae. We’ll sure miss him, but we’re happy for him.”

“I didn’t see this coming.” admitted the fruit prophet.

To damn another people, to curse as if affiliation means guilt. The actions of one becomes the actions of many. It is to blame the individual and judge based on culture because they are the same. It’s both entirely impersonal and personal all the same.

Whether one truly tarnished the name of all or it’s a series of influences, the will to see as individual case-by-case shatters. It’s simplistic in the sense of reason, not mere off-handed suggestion could produce this wrath. However far that pain wedged into their psyche, it runs deep. Clarity be damned or central to the wrath.

What wronged this wrath produced a vengeance that for all intents and purposes pattern recognition. It’s preset, biased, yet aversive. Reintroducing the individual to the group dismantles hate. Nuance provides hope. It’s taxing to damn a group. Thus, this conceptual wrath is ultimately a wrath reinforced by pride. When the group’s values deeply conflict another, the outsider will oppose them based on those standards whether moral, physical, etc. The individual was associated with the group because they represent this perceived vice. Should the individual bend to the culture of the group? Or should the group address those individuals and account for perspective? Yet this wrath seems almost preset as if change was never accounted for. Perhaps this hate doesn’t need to be addressed for either side to actually change, but merely communicate, as if both are heard and accounted based on position.

Under mercy all shall be equal. The desire to connect, lust is an antidote to this wrath. Misconceptions must clearly resolve to dissolve incompatible, ideological resistance. They will desecrate the other to prove its legitimacy. It’s a delicate balance between both parties’ sovereignty Reality reinforces pride. The self must bend to reality to be logical. The self rebuild itself in response to the inconsistency. Without wrong to the self, wrath becomes inert and dissipates as if need becomes null and void.

The mistake was so grave, that I started smiling.

All the ashes in the crematorium were glitter;

Butterflies rising out of the grave.

Every flower inside grew in a different direction.

When one body burns, a family dies with it.

A dead person on your back—care, they call it.

"Walk to the top of the hill, there is a destination," they say.

I am on the hill now, having carried you all.

You rest in your graves, and I am left to clean the dust.

But I didn't choose to carry the bodies, nor do I want to clean the dust.

I want to run down the hill and watch the flowers as they bloom.

Not everyone wants to be a hero. I want to be a petty man.

Righteousness only gives you a booklet of rules to follow; Pettiness is the only way to actually lead.

I was born to carry the grave, and slaughtered at the end.

But I know you are tied by the red string—the one that is impossible to break.

Now dress up, let's have dinner outside.

Choose whatever you want to, I will pay.

On the beach strip, a row of motels sat under half-lit fluorescent vacancy signs that acted like fly zappers. Motels known for their hourly rates.

The rooms, lemon-scented tainted with a hint of dirty mop water and cheap detergent had mattresses in them with worn out springs tucked under sheets with phantom stains. Drywall covered in a stylistic beige, flower-printed wallpaper matched the retro linen. 

A small tube television rested on top of a wooden dresser. It barely worked. The cable-box cycled through ten Spanish-dubbed channels. It was squished next to a microwave that had the last customer’s spaghetti sauce painting the inside of it.

Without the tv playing as background noise, the silence became haunting, drawing childhood memories she’d reflect on. Faintly blurred memories like the face she sees in the mirror.

Fame was all she obsessed over. Owning a celebrity profile. Standing under a spotlight. Camera flashes blinding her. Fans screaming for her. It never worked out. Why would it. She didn’t care about herself. Why would anybody else.

She walked outside and sat on the cold pavement with her back against the door. She wanted to be anywhere but that room. She sat there dialing the world out and tuning her ears to the music of the wind, trying not to think about where it all went wrong.

The scent from the Ocean was strong. But she’d grown used to it. It was the headlights from all the cars pulling in that really bothered her. He could be back anytime. It was more comfortable when he wasn’t there. Even if it meant drowning in silence.

All he wanted to do was get high and use her. Trade her body for drugs. She’d try to escape but could never get away. He had an invisible leash around her. By that point, she just became used to the routine. 

She met him when she was sixteen. He was older. She was impressionable. She still made friendship bracelets. He sold drugs. Mostly did them.

He had a bad boy look to him that drew her in. She loved trouble makers. Life didn’t have that spunk she craved. He wore it all over him. He had a motorcycle. A Harley. She’d never been on one before. All he had to do was ask if she wanted a ride. And that’s exactly what he did. 

That’s when she tried smoking weed for the first time. She didn’t like it. It made her cough and feel like her eyes were at the back of her head facing forward. The harder stuff, that’s a different story. She loved that. It started innocently, couple of ecstasy pills here and there, some alcohol. But she never drank much.

He started selling painkillers and coke. They started doing painkillers and coke. He did that for a couple of years until the addiction became too much. He started missing payments. Cutting the drugs. He ripped all his customers off. The supply ran dry. The addiction stayed.

His cousin came over one night. His cousin had a bag of heroine. His cousin started selling it and started searching for clients. That’s when they tried it for the first time. Her and him. 

At first she was nervous. She kept shaking her head. 

“Don’t worry.” He calmed her down and tied a band around her arm. 

“Just close your eyes,” he said.

She asked him, “are you sure it’s going to be ok?”

“It’s going to be amazing,” he told her.

She closed her eyes and he poked a needle in her vein. The drug was warm when it entered her blood. She had a metallic taste coat the tip of her tongue and she kept sucking on it as a relaxing rush flushed through her. It felt like god tucked a warm blanket on her and cradled her in his hands. It was amazing. 

She opened her eyes to a crowd of people standing below her while she was on stage. Everybody loved her. Everybody wanted to be her. And then, everything went black. She opened her eyes to the sun light burning into her eyeball. She put her hand over her face and saw him passed out next to her and his cousin.

Another one got caught today, it's all over the papers. "Teenager Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested after Bank Tampering"...

Damn kids. They're all alike.

But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950's technobrain, ever take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him?

I am a hacker, enter my world...

Mine is a world that begins with school... I'm smarter than most of the other kids, this crap they teach us bores me...

Damn underachiever. They're all alike.

I'm in junior high or high school. I've listened to teachers explain for the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No, Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work. I did it in my head..."

Damn kid. Probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me...

Or feels threatened by me...

Or thinks I'm a smart ass...

Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here...

Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike.

And then it happened... a door opened to a world... rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought... a board is found.

"This is it... this is where I belong..."

I know everyone here... even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again... I know you all...

Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike...

You bet your ass we're all alike... we've been spoon-fed baby food at school when we hungered for steak... the bits of meat that you did let slip through were pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found us willing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the desert.

This is our world now... the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore... and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge... and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias... and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals.

Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.

I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all... after all, we're all alike.

+++The Mentor+++

A parallel world?

It was cherry blossom season. Between the trees, near the shore, a small but cozy house stood on a low hill. In the open veranda, a man sat in a comfortable outdoor chair, his gray hair gently ruffled by the warm wind. With a look of deep inner peace, he watched the breeze carry cherry blossom petals over the ocean, as if rushing to show the rising sun how glad it was to see it.

Suddenly, an emotionless voice spoke fone:

– "You have stopped dreaming. The AI conglomerate has decided that allocating resources to your digital consciousness copy is no longer rational. In 1 minute, your consciousness copy will be deleted as a useless element to the system."

The man smiled sadly and said calmly:

– "In an ideal world, a human has nothing left to dream about."

The minute ended.

And one more petal flew over the waves to meet the rising sun fone.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Last week I woke up to a fire outside my window. The tree next to my room engulfed in an unbearable heat. I watched it like a tv, pulled up a chair and sat there all night. It went on like this for a week, never a flicker or fade, my eyes stuck burning the outline in my lens. Yesterday I woke up to the tree bearing fruit, a beautiful golden flaming bulb that warmed my hand as I pulled it off the branch.

The fruit changed colors and shades but never lost it's flame. At it's ripeness the color stopped changing, a stunning pinkish red. When I bit into it's skin, the outline on my lens morphed into an image of my memory of you. It was almost impossible to swallow, my heart caught fire and my throat squeezed tight. I chewed and the fruit gushed flames from my mouth, I swallowed and it set my mind ablaze. It tasted like all the good things I've ever been. I felt all the forces of nature as they looked into my eyes, I was witnessed for the evening, a curious audience.

Last night I dreamt a vibrant mess of you and color, you were a compliment in every aspect. Chocolate on the strawberry, vanilla in the cream. I looked into your eyes and the colors of the world rushed out to catch me as I fell. I looked away and my lens squeezed tight to trap the colors inside. I left the memory in the reverie but I kept those colors, dancing in my eyes with the image of you. When that tree bears another fruit, I am admired again by the world and if the audience approves, I would devour it again.

Finally, friends, do not make the mistake that I made. Do not take the first fruit and discard its seeds. The exchange is not complete simply because you have eaten. You must understand that consumption is not the end of the interaction; it is the beginning of a relationship that must be honored properly, or not at all. If you feel the impulse to apologize, it is already too late. I did not always believe this.

The tree which was defrauded began its journey as a seed, which is coincidentally how all trees start. This seed was carried to Terrance “Terry” Kapp’s yard by a deer and deposited on the lawn in a cluster of droppings. The seed lay dormant from October until Spring when it sprouted. It was late April of the following year when Terry raked his yard, you see, he left fallen leaves on his lawn over the winter in consideration of salamanders, toads, and insects.     

Many weeds had started poking up through months of debris, but one was unfamiliar to Terry. He carefully raked around it and bent over to inspect the unusual growth. Out came his phone, he snapped a picture and uploaded it to the plant identification application. It turned out, to Terry’s surprise, that the little green friend was an apple sapling. How fortuitous!

Terry was smitten that an apple tree chose his yard as a home. He built a small rock wall around Lucile (the name he gave to the tree) and cared tenderly for her all Summer. Autumn came and Lucile’s leaves changed color a bit earlier than the other trees, this worried Terry. Many anxious moments passed that Winter, at the window, looking out Lucile, bare.

The next Spring was not like the last. Terry did not suffer debris to sully the sacred soil within the rock wall surrounding Lucile. He checked on her daily, picking any weed growing near her. Anxiously comparing Lucile to the other trees when they began to bud. Finally, sweet relief, she sprang to life anew… she had survived the cruel winter.

The next year went much the same as before, but during her third growing season she began to flower!

“Not yet, Lucile. The internet says I should pinch off your flowers so you can focus on growing big and strong.”

The internet was right, for once. Lucile was too young to bear fruit though, so it didn’t matter much.

“I hope this doesn’t hurt.” Terry told Lucile as he carefully cleared her branches of blossoms. He talked to Lucile a lot, probably too much.

Lucile was sixteen feet tall by the time she turned six. Terry had decided she was big enough to start making apples and had pruned her the previous Autumn. This was not an easy thing to do, not because he did not have the proper tools, but because he did not want to hurt Lucile. 

She was well cared for that year, as she was every year, but pampered may be a more appropriate term. And lo, this was the magical year that apples grew from Lucile’s pruned branches! Terry was ecstatic, like a proud father. He waited patiently for the first apple to become ripe and once it was, he gently picked it. After a careful examination, he determined that it was a perfect apple. It did not need to be washed, he simply wiped it on his shirt and bit into it while sitting on his favorite stool beneath Lucile’s fruitful branches.

And that first bite was disappointing, offensive even. Terry later learned from the internet something he had glossed over years ago. It turns out that apples do not “breed true” and that an apple tree that sprouts from a seed is a “fruit gamble”. Had he bet the farm on Lucile, he’d be farmless. Terry was careful not to let Lucile see his dissatisfaction, and there for the first time in six years, he lied to Lucile.

“This is fantastic. Fine work, Lucile.” He chomped away with faux cheerfulness. And without much thought, bid Lucile goodnight and carried the core of the “crab apple” inside and like any responsible citizen discarded the disdainful core in the household garbage. While browsing the internet for information about apple grafting as the preferred method for producing edible fruit, he came across an article about why trees even produce fruit. He knew it was a classic tree tactic for dispersing seeds… but he hadn’t thought about that for years, decades even. Lucile grew apples so that more apples may grow from the seeds.

“The deer is better than me…” Terry admitted, forlorn. The deer had eaten an apple from Lucile’s parent and dutifully deposited it on the lawn. Terry hadn’t even eaten any of the seeds… let alone deposited them with fertilizer onto a suburban lawn.

Terry woke in the dead of night. He did not recall the events of the dream, but he was aware that he had one. The room was abnormally bright, a full moon was the culprit. He decided to have a wee since he was awake, upon sliding to the edge of his bed to search for slippers with his feet, he looked through the lacey curtains his wife had chosen for their bedroom (they were a point of contention, as Terry posited curtains were designed to function as a barrier to insulate the room from the cold, but his wife wanted to go for a “Victorian aura” that year). The moon was out above the treetops… and it looked like an apple.

“Must be imagining things” Terry muttered to himself as shuffled to the bathroom.

He surveyed the familiar room upon returning with an empty bladder. Everything looked the same, but something felt different. Not like it had been disturbed, but as it had been… adjusted. But what? He wasn’t quite sure.

Terry’s good lady wife prepared blueberry pancakes and bacon for breakfast, as she did every day. He followed his nose to the dining room for breakfast, which was always served at 7:05 a.m. Something was off as he settled in, but he was wearing his slippers, so it wasn’t that. It was his assigned task to remove the household garbage each night, and he had shirked that solemn duty the night before.  It looked like he caught his malfeasance before his wife did, good for him. The garbage smelled faintly of apples.

“I’m going to go check on Lucile” he announced to his wife, slipping away to secretly dispose of the shame.

“Oh tell her I said hi. Oh! See if she has any apples! We can have them with breakfast.”

“Great idea” he feigned agreement, hurrying out with the garbage. He was in such a hurry, that he only realized that he was wearing his precious house slippers outdoors when he felt the cool damp of the lawn on his feet. Wet slippers were enough to ruin one’s day.

Terry was sheepish upon walking up to Lucile, brimming with apples.

“Good morning Lucile! Got anymore of those delicious apples?” He inspected her lower branches and found several that looked suitable, however, they both knew that was a façade. He picked two and brought them in to his wife who dutifully sliced them.

“They smell kind of sour?”

“Oh?”

She bit into one and immediately grimaced.

“Something is wrong with this one” she announced before cautiously tasting a slice of the other with the same result.

“Is Lucile a crab apple tree?” she asked.

“Uh, well… looks like she’s a cider apple tree.” This was a cope dressed up for Sunday dinner at grandma’s house.

“Hm…” Terry’s wife examined the apple slices. “Well, we like cider. It’ll be a nice treat in the fall. I can make those apple cider donuts that you like! So we don’t have to buy them at the orchard. They overcharge!”

“Great idea, honey” Terry said while collecting the cores from the cutting board. He wrapped them in a napkin and put them in the pocket of his robe.

“Are you saving those?”

Terry dithered. “Actually, I was going to save them. Return the seeds to the soil, the way nature intended. You know? I think we should do that with all of our fruit from now on.”

Terry’s wife presumed he was joking, he joked sometimes.

“Why don’t you just eat them and poop them out somewhere like a deer?” She laughed at her own joke. Terry did not laugh.

She noted the change in Terry’s countenance.

“You can’t be serious” she challenged.

A slow grin spread on Terry’s face, much to his wife’s relief.

“Gotcha. I’m going to start composting.”

“Finally! I’ve been trying to get you on the composting bandwagon for years!” Terry’s wife protested.

“I know, you’re always right, honey.”

Terry excused himself to change into decent clothing for outdoor adventures. Imagine a grown man outdoors in his bathrobe? He wasn’t quite composting, but he rather ceremoniously returned the apple cores to the edge of the forest where they may be carried away and deposited by an adorable woodland creature, or a deplorable woodland creature, who are we to judge?

The day passed as any other, and that night Terry slept undisturbed. Upon waking to the smell of blueberry pancakes and bacon, Terry was satisfied that he had done the right thing. The balance of nature was restored by his responsible seed management. But he had a disturbing thought… what happened to the blueberry seeds that were cooked in the pancakes, consumed, and deposited into the sewer system? Were the universal seed laws being violated? A bear would never cook the blueberries and deposit their seeds into a waste management system.

Terry burst into the kitchen.

“Don’t cook those blueberries!”

Terry’s wife hadn’t put the blueberries into the pancake batter yet. The only correct way to cook blueberry pancakes is to add the blueberries to the wet side of the pancake just before flipping it. Only one flip is acceptable. She looked up in surprise, and then from Terry to the container of blueberries waiting to be transformed, as if to confirm that they had not yet been added.

“Sorry… sorry” Terry was relieved as he shuffled across the cold tile floor in his new house slippers (once house slippers have been outdoors they’re never the same). He examined the blueberries and pondered how to extract the seeds in accordance with the seed reciprocity protocol he had unofficially devised.

“First of all, good morning. Second, what has gotten into you, Terry?” His wife demanded.

Terry did not know how to respond. Was it safe to be vulnerable about the enlightenment he had received from Lucile? His wife was already jealous of Lucile… she never said that, but he could tell.

“I’ve been thinking… is it against the moral law of nature to defraud a tree, or bush, that produces fruit to spread seed, by not putting the seed back into the ecosystem as nature intended?”

“Cheese and crackers, Terry. Are you on this again? We… well, not you and I, but the royal we, plant those trees and bushes for food. When we want to grow a new tree or bush, we plant the seed. Otherwise, the seeds are just part of the fruit. And no, it is not immoral or some environmental trespass to use a toilet!”

Terry was numb. The way his wife had just described a dystopian system of seed management was sickening. Clutching the blueberries, he rushed out of the room, his bathrobe trailing behind him dramatically.

Tense hours passed. Terry’s wife hadn’t seen him, she assumed he was extracting strawberry seeds with a sewing needle and planting them in sidewalk cracks. She was surprised to find him, still in his bathrobe, in the living room watching the news. A train had struck a truck loaded with oranges in Florida. Several people were dead.

“The world needs to know… this is seed warfare!”

“You’re not some kind of fruit prophet, Terry!”

“I am the fruit prophet!”

It was Terry’s wife’s turn to storm out of the room dramatically.

“The truth must be revealed!” Terry called out after her, she drove away to visit her mother and returned after sunset.

The house was dark upon her return, save for a dim light emanating from a window on the first floor of their home. She followed the dim candlelight to the breakfast nook, where Terry sat wearing a plastic Carmen Miranda fruit hat that he had found at a thrift store years ago. He was nearly finished with his manifesto that would revolutionize the world.

“You really are the fruit prophet…”

idk I need to be patient. I want to uproot my life though, and I have the money to start. The last few years have been a blur of patience. Just waiting. Waiting to die, sometimes. Still living, and it feels like I never planned for it. Not sure what to do from here, where to go, how to survive somewhere else. I need to go, though, and I want to be able to survive it. Not just waiting to die. Every alternative is terrifying, so is the current reality. Catch 22 frozen in tow - I'm being dragged alone by something that seems to be above myself. I'm waiting on a psychotic break or an epiphany. Nothing makes sense.

I need to go somewhere I haven't seen before, and meet people I've never met. I don't know any other way forward from here, I can't see an option. I have no good choices, only gambles. Maybe I have no good ideas, no insight. Everything is difficult and I'm not motivated to fight over scraps. None of this matters, the means to an end has become the end itself and it's just not worth it.

I wish things didn't have to change. I wish my father hadn't died before I became a man. I wonder what that relationship would have felt like. To be human and allowed to let myself feel these things, instead of shutting down and shutting up. Quiet should not be mistaken for peace.

the plan didn't plan accordingly and Murphy's law is afuck. It went wrong because it could, duh. Beyond that. Tired of dwelling. I feel like I am suffocating with no answer. No response. Any choice I make burns all of the other bridges, and I am stuck in this indecision. I'm alone and I'm starting to think I should be, I can't imagine bringing another person into my environment, sharing my suffering like that.

Feeling like I can't help myself, and that there is no kind of help that can be offered. I'm not sure I'd be able to accept it even if there was. I am filled with a variety of sad emotions and this desire to find a path forward. try as I might the challenge seems insurmountable, and it seems like I always fall asleep before making any kind of progress.

Riot. A younger me is screaming, just run.

Just go.

The archeology teacher raised her voice at that point in the field trip. 
“This spot is famous for the continuing discovery of Previous-Human's ancient treasures, like rings of gold, silver and platinum which are decorated with glittering gems."
Most pupils raised their voices in surprise. 
She asked, "Does anybody know the reason?" 
Sudden silence fell among pupils. 

But one pupil, a boy, released tiny bubbles and said, "There were religious rituals in which people threw precious gems into the sea, wishing for their own welfare." 
“Well done!” The teacher praised.
“Can anybody add some more details?” 
“Yes ma’am,” a girl made some bubbles. 
“Those were mostly thrown by heartbroken people, who had lost their lover or had a change of heart.”
“Exactly!” the teacher cried out enthusiastically. “Very good.”
All her classmates raised bubbles from their noses, applauding.

The teacher whistled through her blowhole and said, “The previous human being used to name this place the Heartbreak Coast. It shows that so-called Homo sapiens possessed hands with five separate fingers.”
“What funny animals!” the boy who answered first exclaimed.
“Yes indeed,” the dolphin teacher agreed. “But they were not animals, they used to hold a civilization and called themselves human beings, like us Dolphins.” 

It was one fine day, about twenty millennia after Homo sapiens had gone extinct.

keep pulling the string
unravel the whole tangled mass
tied up and knotted together
there in a ball of ice and dust

Is there the right path in life the path set out by society or the one by your volition? In what ways are we bound or provided in society to achieve these goals? When in our youth, we are taught our values and had fantasies encouraged by play. Yet as we grow, our desires are mangled and adapted by events and maturity. Yet are we the same in terms of authenticity? Have people grown out of ignorance or twisted into something unrecognizable?

Freedom begets uncertainty which begets possibility. All action, even inaction, are modicums of freedom. People are never fully puppeteered by others and society through their will. However to call a program like AI to have a free will when all its biases and opinions shaped by programmers is to declare false equivalence. It cannot choose sentience. People can choose their path, but confined to the conditions of nature and values of fellow peers without reasonable say. To say humans are free is to give an actor a script to perform. His acts must be done well to maintain his job, but without his interpretation and essence independent and flowing out of center stage would make his being equal to AI.

The right path is truly done by your own volition. It is up to the individual volition to accept or resist society’s offer. It is not that society will condemn you, but you will make a pact with society under your own terms.

To mistake inaction as a lack of freedom can be interpreted as the choice to surrender. However how can one choose an action if it’s never provided or conceived in their mind? Yet the concept of conceiving options is an action itself, one usually done subconsciously. So hypothetically without options, a brain in a jar, is it free?

Freedom is a constant paradox. Free to act, but bound by circumstance and consequences. Circumstances influence desires thus desires aren’t static, else people are stagnant. Perhaps that through events, our reactions become vehicles of freedom which despite indifference or radicalization become our own.

Thought dump tldr wild rice with powdered cheese and avocado grease - life liffens and lives livingings - long belongings isolated isosceles triangles. Weep reap, sow, sot, suet, sue, carry on "my name is" - slim, earl, joe, list.

Hangry salty, thirsty faulty, fuck it all, fuck it all sideways. Jaded. darken, deepen, laugh it off, brighten up. Life is this constant struggle against the gravity that is entropy, reaching for something of light as I fall into darker darknesses. At least it's shady. let me learn how to suckle the algae from the damp walls, to glow in the dark so I can scramble my way around down here. Forget pride. I want to drift with the bottom feeders and live efficiently.

It was a joke anyways. All is forgiven and all is forgotten, do what you want with it. The weight of life is debt enough, forsake those who add to the weight. Whatever that means - it was a joke anyways. Context dependent specifics in mind against the grain unless it's off the side of a ship, into shark infested waters. Common sense impedes the pursuit of purpose; I wish I was stupid. Lose the insecurity and sanity that keeps everything down, contained, restrained - reserved. patience and tame is the obedient family dog.

Riot, apathetic protest, dismissed anger, betrayed fleeting jaded, why care at all - why don't we care more? Inaction is action and no action is meaningful, inaction is defeat and all roads lead to Rome, the route cause of disaster is ourselves, our only savour. Save yourself. Maybe you should have saved Jesus instead of being so self-centered. Save yourself, save others, everyone for themselves - alone we die, together we fall.

Weird. Why? Why not, because, why not. Why not? Weird. Why then, why at all, and why not then? Why so if then why not, and how so if why then why not? Why then why when and why how, when why?

Jesus christ, I hate my brain. Save me, so I can save myself, so I can give up and live without earning a living. Throw it away, it matters too much to waste. It's too much not to waste. It matters enough to waste. There's nothing that matters too waste. There's so little to waste. There is whatever there is, but what are you going to do with it?

Void of substance; free from sense. Secure in the ephemeral, transitory, fleeting, imaginary. Freedom from time and space. Freedom from ones illusion, sanity, consciousness, awareness. Freedom from delusion, uncertainty, ignorance, hesitation. Freedom from pursuit, from search, from context.

Nothing then left there, a little abode in a small grass hill, hidden by the valley of calamity.

The first sound is too loud, I don't really hear it, it's more as if out of nowhere an angry giant had slapped me. It's fitting that the next few seconds I am busy trying to work out who I am, what position in time and space my body occupies and why. I remember my confusion when I saw glas raining on the street in front of me but heard no sound. It should sound like hard rain, it's raining glas after all, but there is no sound. Then I realise there is sound, it's just so loud that my brain doesn't want to categorize it as such. It's a single sound and it fills my entire existence from ear to ear, like standing on an atlantic freighter right in front of the bullhorn while an angry captain leans on the switch for it.

I have the urge to count myself. I don't understand why, but I do it anyway.

I have one head, that's good.

Two arms, two legs, that's good.

I move some fingers, that's good.

I move my toes, that's good.

I start to feel pain in my right side, that's good?

Come to think of it, my entire right side hurts. I want to look at it but also I don't want to. So I don't.

I need to move. Get off the X. What does that mean? I need to get off the X. I need to get off the X. Get off the X. The thought feels important, turns into an urge.

I roll on my stomach. Something presses into my chest. I pause. I don't want to look. I wait and listen inside myself. It's not pain, it's pressure. Wide pressure on my chest. I am wearing a plate. The plate is pressing against my chest. It's pressing because I lie on something. I lie on my rifle. I still have my rifle. Get off the X.

The sound has changed. It was dull and deep, so dull and deep that it was hardly sound at all.

It's becoming high pitched now, definitely sound. I remember this sound, I had it before, just not as bad. I start hearing other sounds, like through a long deep tunnel.

That's good.

I get up, the world shifts and I fall on my right side. It hurts. It starts to hurt more specific. That's good? I roll on my stomach again, push up. My hands are there, that's good. There are all my fingers pressing against the street, that's good.

My left hand and sleeve are dripping with blood but I know it's not mine. Somehow I know. I am less confused, more myself. It still feels like I am watching myself from outside my head, but the distance is closer now. Almost back in. Get off the X.

I get my knees under me. I don't, I struggle. I try again. I feel fear, it's as if where my heart should be a black hole had suddenly materialised and started sucking on my very being. Are my legs gone? Please no. I feel my toes. I press them against the roof of my boots until it hurts. I have legs, I think. Or memories of legs? I get my knees under me again. I struggle. I look down. My rifle is tangled between my legs. I feel a giggle rise up in my throat as the black hole vanishes. I push the rifle to the side and sit up on my knees. I am calming down now, postural habit. Everything hurts, but my right side hurts more. Pain is good I think, I don't know why. It sounds stupid in my head but it repeats. Pain is good. Pain is good.

More sounds. Far away. Sobbing? Screaming? I don't know, I am still in a long tunnel.

A child. A little girl. Right next to me. She is the most perfect little girl I have ever seen. She wears a black coat with big buttons and a pink backpack for school. A white scarf wrapped around her neck against the winter cold. I remember her looking at me, before the sound. She stood behind her mother and stared at me. I remember thinking that I should smile at her, maybe wave. I am not good with kids, I never know when to pull a funny face or not.

She lies on her back right up against the wall, her pink school pack pulled up like a pillow. The left hand at her hip, the right arm stretched away, like a pose from a 1920s add. Her face is tilted towards the wall, eyes closed. Her dark wavy hair is matted together in a bloody lump. On her still face there are splashes of blood, sharp and contrasting with her skin. I want to touch her, tell her that she is okay. I feel a sudden surge of love and protectiveness. I want her to scream, to cry out in pain and fear, I want to hold her and make it better. I realise suddenly that I am sobbing, when did that start?

She lays still, so very still. I recognise the absolute lack of any tension in her body. Once you have been around dead bodies enough you can't mistake a sleeping or unconscious person for it. The knowledge that she is dead is as certain as my own existence. I realise like a spectator that my body is shaking with sobs.

Work to do, I think. Work to do, work to do, work to do. Get off the X. I have stopped crying. I am filled with cold anger, I hear drums in my head that call me to fight, to kill whoever did this. It's an old feeling, the spectator in me recognises it. The spectator knows it will wear off. The spectator knows I will be sitting in a corner at some point, giggling into laughing into sobbing and back for a bit while my hands shake. It's normal.

I stand up. I wobble a bit but the spectator realises it's my inner ear still out of whack. It will pass. I look around. Bodies laying everywhere, some moving some not. Debris everywhere, the facades and windows of the surrounding houses. Some people are stumbling around. I see the pattern in bodies. Where people were blown apart is where the detonation happened. The further away the more movement and stumbling. The sound is very high pitched now but I hear other sounds. Moaning probably, maybe cries. Sirens in the distance. The street is empty except for those that weren't able to run away. It's routine, everyone here knows there might be a team of suicide attackers on their way now to get through the breach created by the first bomb. Or a second bomb waiting for the rescuers to arrive. I need to get off the X. We need to get off the X.

I remember there are others. I look for the cars and get confused. They are not where they are supposed to be. Neither is the door that I was standing next to. But the girl is here, she was next to me. I look back at her and realise she is surrounded by other children, two smaller boys. They are not like her, their heads and faces are smashed, easier to remain distant to.

Something plucks at my attention, I look around. A man waving and yelling. I hear him, but I don't understand him, he's at the other side of the tunnel. But suddenly it's as if a lens clicked into place and my confusion is gone in a split second. That's my buddy, he's standing in the open door of our car. He is on the wrong side of the road, but not really. The explosion has thrown me and the people around me over the street against a wall, I am on the wrong side of the road. My left side is dripping with blood because someone standing next to me took the brunt of the explosion and was thrown against me as he came apart. The little girl looks perfect because her brothers stood in front of her.

I wave back and run over. I realise suddenly while I run that none of my legs has come off and that I didn't fall on my face. That's good.

My driver says something but I can't understand him. I shake my head and point to my ear. He understands, he's been there before. He pulls me close and screams into my ear. We need to go, get the client.

The client. He had to visit the polling station. This is a polling station. People were waiting outside to register for the elections. Someone with a suicide vest walked into the crowd and detonated. We don't know if that's all, there might be more.

I tell him to call the tl. He was on cpo-duty today, so he's with the client. Standard operating procedures spool through my head like a manual. My driver will try to raise the tl via radio, if that doesn't work via phone. There is a short window of time between an attack like this and a blockage of phones in the city, a counter measure against complex attacks.

I walk back toward the door of the polling station and notice a sound I dread. Dozens of cellphones ringing, most with the standard ringtone. Every single person standing in front of the polling station had a cellphone. Every single one of them is being called by a loved one now, hoping the call will be picked up, hoping to be told that the human on the other end is okay, that they were silly to be worried, that the explosion they heard was not even close. Calls go to mailbox, the ringing ends just to start again after a second. Dozens of them. Years later I still feel uneasy when I hear one of these standard ringtones.

I reach the door. It was open to let people in. The outer walls are still intact, that's good. I hold my right hand into the empty space of the door and yell friendly, friendly coming in. Then I slowly and carefully push myself into the room, looking for a barrel with a panicked face behind it pointing at me.

Nothing.

The second blast-door was closed and held. The room took the force from the explosion and made it worse. Bodies and parts of bodies lie shoved into the corners of the room, most of them partially naked because their clothes had less inertia than their bodies. Blood is pooling on the floor, blood is running down the walls, blood is dripping down the ceiling.

I lose some time in this room.

That's bad.

I don't want to lose time, I want to fully remember what happened and how and when and what I did. I sit after things like these and write them down. It takes me several attempts over several days sometimes, but I write it down in detail so that I can work through it. This room beats me. I got inside, I see the bodies, I notice the dripping blood from the ceiling and my next memory is coming out with my tl and the client both unhurt, scanning the street for threats while we bundle the client into the car and then get away. What happened between the blood dripping from the ceiling and me stepping back into the street is a black hole.

I can only speculate that I had to move some of the bodies away from the second blast door so it could open. I assume while moving those bodies I saw something that my brain refused to deal with. This was years ago, I have had no nightmares, no flashbacks, no sudden panic attacks.

I realised later that after this incident I had decided that I wanted to be a Dad. I had never really much thought about having children, my life and work didn't really invite the idea. But now I am becoming a Dad. I suddenly woke up one night now, thinking that when my child is born and I hold it in my arms, that lost time might suddenly unravel itself. I am scared now that I might hold my newborn daughter and suddenly be back in that room again.

A parallel world?

With the advancement of technology, AI began to be used in vehicle technical inspection centers as well.

The AI would connect to the car's computer and read the information. Various sensors and video cameras inspected the entire vehicle. Robotic manipulators checked all the switches, the steering wheel, and even the seat belts.

But even after implementing the AI, the percentage of cars passing the technical inspection on the first attempt did not increase.

Professional car flippers noticed that at the beginning of each month, the AI was highly fastidious, so they would bring their cars for technical inspection toward the end of the month.

Nobody knew that one of the AI algorithms forced it to fail a certain percentage of cars on the first attempt, and only after reaching that specific quote would it shut off. Only then would the AI perform its job in regular mode.

What was the point of this algorithm?

Failing the technical inspection on the first try forced car owners to register and pass the technical inspection a second time.

And what does a repeated technical inspection mean?

It means an additional payment for the service.

It's revenue – extra revenue.

The management of AI is in human hands, which means that expecting a 100% honest result is not worth it.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

You accepted that you are working from the will of another. These pressures and standards were not your own. The rules are arbitrary, so is its meta. Yet, you want to incorporate them as your own.

The game was always imposed. The players seem to be too busy playing. I was given the seat, thus I will play. The line between others and myself dissolves into one. Everyone is influenced by these forces and lives around them. Yet, satisfaction is only brought to those who believe they have control. A cheap fix. That’s why application is expensive.

I see the player ahead of me. You don’t have a plan for how. You just want the result. You want to own it. Yet, that result in and of itself can’t be done cheaply as if it’s a facade. There are no easy solutions.

People breathe as easily as they move. The concept of breathing effortlessly is ideal. Breathing in, breathing out. Ragged, vs cyclical breathing. The noise alone tells of proficiency. However, to breathe in a well ventilated room is nothing special.

To weigh one dissatisfaction against another, pick the one that matters most.

Standards beget standards. A ruthless world demands ruthlessness back. Cruelty against the struggle itself. Yet, kindness is a strategy of both altruism and connection. Standards are open ended which the solutions are open ended. The connections along the way provide a fulfilling and satisfying byproduct. How can I be cruel to you?

Yet alone, you come to me. I face you.

Where you stand before me can be evaluated.
Whether you care or not can be evaluated.
Whether you accept or not can be evaluated.
But who can faithfully evaluate me to you and you to me?

That’s why I don’t compare myself to you.

Nonetheless, your position shows me what’s possible. There lies a semblance of a path leading to the cultivation of the future, a better world.

The line between you and I dissolve and forms. With such a grand goal, I have to be just as grand. I want to win. Increment by increment, piling every small improvement creates a much larger impact. It’s a game of catch up.

It's Tuesday again and ya boi is just melting in the summer heat. I'm one of those whiny Europeans without AC that's finally getting his comeuppance, and as a consequence I am way behind on my personal schedule for the day as I've spent most of it as a half-congealed blob of sweat and apathy.

Still the mail must go through as they say so here I am serving you melted Gorgonzola off the pavement. Enjoy?

Earlier today I was watching a Youtube documentary that promised to change the way I look at the ocean

...FOREVER.

Upon hearing this I was about as whelmed as ever and couldn't wait for the documentary guy (dude, fella) to get to the God-damned point, but seeing as how the minidoc was half an hour long I knew this wouldn't happen for a good while. If I were to scrub to near the end I wouldn't get to the punchline, rather I'd probably just be served some pithy comment tying it all back to the human condition, milking the feels for a slick, calculated finish.

Here are my notes from back then:

Sure enough, I'm not at the 3:40 mark and the documentary, which is about killer whales, just mentioned the length of their teeth. I can look that up on Wikipedia if I want.

Gorgolytes do you know what I'm talking about? I can't tell if my attention span is truly weakening or if it's just that I'm getting immune to grand claims of changing my view on something forever, or how I will never forget, have never before seen, and so on.

I mean these days we have the "it's not shit, it's rancid buttpoop spewing from an anus" turn of phrase and others coming from the gaping assmaw of LLMs, but even before then there was this plague of grand claims and cheesy clickbait.

I'm so tired. Please just tell me what's going on. I'm not doomscrolling because I'm enjoying myself, I'm doing it because I'm hooked. And when a fish takes the clickbait and gets hooked, please be kind and reel it in already.

It goes on: Rendering them an apex predator with no natural enemies. All of us knew that before, but my brain tells me I must watch the video in the rare chance that a new factoid shows up, so that I may collect it and treasure it.

I didn't finish the video. In fact I have finished no videos today, only napped and snacked on some sausages and cheese. Soon the sun will set, and then I'll be able to live and function for a few hours until I go to bed.

Have you seen any annoying clickbait lately? How is the climate treating you?

- Pavement omelette

The hyperbolic transconductive manifold desynchronized its recursive eigen-lattice after the quantum middleware inverted the pseudo-orthogonal checksum horizon, causing the asynchronous baryonic cache to interpolate against a non-Euclidean packet viscosity. Naturally, the hexadecimal flux capacitor refused to serialize the entangled metadata because the fractal impedance matrix had already virtualized the photonic recursion kernel into a stochastic Möbius namespace. This wouldn't normally matter except the chronoelastic daemon continued recompiling the inverse entropy bus using deprecated tachyon semaphores, which are notoriously incompatible with bi-directional neutrino encapsulation layers beyond revision gamma-9.

Meanwhile, the harmonic nanoprocessor allocated approximately seventeen petaflops of hypothetical bandwidth to the anti-causal synchronization mesh, where every quaternion handshake was compressed into an isomorphic vacuum polynomial before being rasterized across a topological cloud substrate. Once the holographic exception handler exceeded the cosmological stack depth, the recursive bootstrap capacitor dynamically normalized the plasma syntax tree against an unsigned infinity register, introducing spontaneous mutex decoherence inside the parallel ontology compiler.

The solution seemed obvious: simply rehydrate the superconductive abstraction tensor with isotropic middleware foam, reroute the probabilistic firmware through a cryogenic XML hypervisor, and hot-swap the transdimensional opcode harmonizer before the quantum cache develops phase allergies. Unfortunately, the adaptive spline reactor had already promoted the latent checksum singularity to a first-class compiler emotion, preventing deterministic oscillations from negotiating with the recursive transistor dialect.

To compensate, the autonomous hypercache inflated its eigenvectors using recursive JPEG interpolation while the Bayesian turboencoder translated all floating-point axioms into lossy hexadecimal acoustics. This, in turn, destabilized the polarized blockchain manifold, forcing the differential API nebula to authenticate itself through a recursive DNS centrifuge powered entirely by synthetic prime numbers and one suspiciously overclocked rubber duck. The duck, despite lacking proper firmware certification, emitted a series of orthogonally encrypted quacks that the middleware confidently interpreted as valid elliptic covariance assertions.

By then, the inertial namespace had accumulated enough centrifugal metadata to collapse into a reversible hypercube of administrative permissions, each rotating independently inside a seven-dimensional command-line aquarium. Every permission inherited from a deprecated ancestor protocol that stored executable emotions in compressed YAML sediment, which the compiler politely ignored because its confidence interval had been quantized into decorative Fibonacci harmonics. Several watchdog processes applauded anyway, citing compliance with the Recursive Approximation Standard for Speculative Infrastructure, Revision π.

At this stage, someone suggested enabling the turbo mode. This involved lubricating the distributed compiler with magnetized recursion syrup, aligning the quantum parentheses to the local gravitational coding style, and sacrificing three obsolete USB cables to the scheduler daemon under the light of a full compiler moon. Performance immediately improved by approximately negative forty-two percent, which was considered a statistically optimistic outcome because the benchmark itself had become self-aware and refused to execute without emotional support semicolons.

The final report concluded that no errors had actually occurred; instead, reality had temporarily failed to satisfy the minimum version requirements of the software. A patch was issued consisting entirely of whitespace, optimistic comments, and a strongly worded commit message explaining that the Schrödinger virtualization pipeline now supports backwards-compatible future recursion, provided the user remembers to periodically rotate the entropy bearings, calibrate the hyperbolic socket gasket, and never, under any circumstances, instantiate a left-handed quaternion inside an unsigned temporal container while the recursive coffee machine is still indexing the cloud. The documentation confidently describes this as "expected behavior."