Well... this was written as just a bit of fun, and a dig at my experience working as a frontline consultant in a CBD recruitment firm back in the day. I know I am supposed to be exploring different styles of writing, and it feels like slightly a cop-out as I have chosen the same smirking, tongue-in-cheek narrative as my "Reincarnation" story. But I think I've focused a lot more on characterisation here, even if I purposely didn't get too far inside Toby's head. It's written from Toby's viewpoint so you could say he's the protagonist, but I didn't want to make either character too empathetic. nzric - The Recruitment Company The underside of the old office desk was pock-marked with Rorschach blots of old chewing gum stains and Toby ducked further as he felt his hair catch on something sticky. He reached further around the back of the old hard-drive with the monitor cable and screwed it tightly into the plug, hearing the dull static “thunk” above him as the monitor came back to life. Backing out gingerly through the dust balls and assorted refuse of paperclips & spent staples, Toby stood up, trying to smooth the creases in his white dress shirt. His navy blue tie, a grey swipe of dust along one edge, hung limply over one shoulder and he straightened it with one hand, the other shaking the air in mock triumph as he glanced around the assessment room. Out of the four other applicants, two starched and suited grad students stared at him dully from their own computers, a middle aged, slightly overweight office manager type looked up at him with obvious distaste, drumming her fingers on the stocking of one knee where her floral dress rode up. The other applicant in the assessment room was a young power-suited girl with her black hair in a tight bun. She had her back to Toby and completely ignored him, still in the frantic throes of her typing test. “Toby Davidson?” a pert voice asked from behind him. Toby turned to the front of the room with one fist still in the air, but he put it down quickly and self-consciously brushed at the creases at the front of his shirt. The Recruiter tapped her clipboard with a pen the same russet shade as her long nails, standing in the wide office doorway with a pose that was clear she was used to being looked at. Toby guessed she was about five years older than him, somewhere in her mid-twenties but the tailored grey suit and slightly heavy make-up made her seem older. “Uh.. yeah… that’s me,” Toby said, for a moment completely losing the composure he had held for the last twenty minutes since he had arrived. “Well hiya Toby! my name is Katie and I am your Recruitment Consultant,” the Recruiter put out her hand and gave a wide, professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. As Toby shook her hand she tucked the clipboard under her arm with her left hand, took a practiced step to the side and cupped his elbow gently in her hand, keeping hold of his right hand and leading Toby in a quick pace back past the buffed metal Reception desk. Corporate Aikido, he thought to himself. “Wait.. hold on,” Toby started, already halfway down a long corridor to the side of Reception, “I haven’t finished the computer test yet.” “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that!” she replied, steering him in a ninety-degree angle and into a small booth just big enough for the two red swivel chairs and a PC on a semi-circular table. She took her clipboard from under her arm with a flourish. “Well Toby, would you like to have some water before we start?” she asked, clicking her pen quickly with a tempo that matched her quick speech. “No, it’s okay, thanks” he replied. She gave him another predatory smile and began scribbling something on the clipboard. “Oh, are you absolutely sure you don’t want some water? It’s really no trouble at all.” Toby felt his face getting redder. He arched his neck but she kept the clipboard facing away from him. “Well, um, okay then.” “Right,” she said, turning a page over on the clipboard and making a few pen scratches. She swivelled on one high heel and came back within seconds with a tall glass of water, clipboard under her arm. She put the glass in front of him, leaning forward slightly as she did it and hooking the base of the door with one heel. It swung closed gently and she sat at the chair with the monitor and keyboard. Unsheathing the clipboard again and holding it at a forty-five degree angle from his vision, she started jotting down more notes. After a minute, Toby tried to break the silence. “Thanks for seeing me… Katie. I’m not sure if you have seen my resume but I saw a few jobs your agency was advertising and..” “Is Toby your real name?” she interrupted absently. “Well yeah, of course,” he answered. “Middle name?” “uh, Andrew.” “Andrew…” she looked up at him, “that’s good… could be a bit stronger than Toby don’t you think… Andrew Davidson. You haven’t considered..” “What, changing my name? Well, no.. I..” “No problem, just asking,” she smiled again and waved her pen dismissively. “Right. Ok then. We have the results of your computer test and I have to say it’s a good start.” “I didn’t do the test,” Toby said. “Like I said, I finished the typing test but then the computer crashed.” “Yes. Absolutely. Annoying wasn’t it?” Toby shrugged. “Anyway. Sixty words per minute typing… very good… and a B minus on the computer crash. Good use of initiative to ask Reception… crawling under the dusty desk, good, good.. checking power connections.. good use of initiative. Do you want to see the video?” “You mean the crash was part of the test?” She looked up from his notes with a smirk, “not too quick on the mark though…” “Hey, that’s out of line,” Toby said defensively. “Now Toby, it’s just a quick way for us to find out how you act in a work situation. We already know your demographic can use the normal office software packages, but the test is how much initiative and enthusiasm you show in a work environment. Right now we’ve got one of the other applicants fixing a broken printer in the assessment room, and another is adding an app to our Receptionist’s cellphone.” Toby settled himself down and the Recruiter pulled two stapled documents from the back of the clipboard, sliding one across the table to him. It was two pages of neatly formatted text and diamond-tipped bullet points. At the top of the page was his name in bold sans serif – ‘Toby Andrew Davidson’. “So, on to your application,” she began, “this is your CV, we put all our applicant CVs into the agency format. Take a look through.” The CV was in a standard template format but it read easily. Toby scanned the document – BSc Erendon University, three years as part-time Office Administrator at his uncle’s kitchenware franchise, ‘Davidson Kitchenware-house’ – he skipped to the next page. “Looks like my CV got mixed up with another one,” he started, “I never worked as Junior Teller at ‘Cheepo Kitchen World’.” “No, that’s yours. This is your notional CV. Check the dates.” The Cheepo job was dated ‘August 2011 to June 2012.’ Following this was a stint from ‘June 2012 to March 2016’ as a Warehouse Junior Assistant at Stan’s Bargain Kitchen Emporium. In the ‘Qualifications’ section under his BSc was a Certificate of Participation in a half-day “Stan’s Sales Winnership Workshop’ in August 2014. “You see,” Katie began, answering his unspoken question, “nowadays employers only want to hire someone with prior full-time experience, but as a recent graduate you don’t have that experience and you can’t get it unless an employer offers you a job. It’s a classic Catch-22 situation.” “Okay,” Toby said, “so this is supposed to be what kind of job I’d want?” Katie’s expression brightened and she lifted her copy of the document to make a short note on the clipboard underneath. “You’re right, this shows the potential career development a person like you could have if they were given a chance with the right employer.” He flushed. “If this is supposed to be the kind of job I’d want to work in it’s aiming pretty low, don’t you think? This job with my uncle was just to get me through my studies. I’m not going to spend the next five years in the back room of an appliance warehouse.” “Of course you have your hopes and dreams of the perfect job out of university, but the reality is often a lot different,” She looked at him steadily. “And there’s nothing wrong with a good days work for a good days pay. Anyway, these are just notional jobs at notional companies. The main thing is employers want to see a narrative of your career progression.” She slid the slimline keyboard to face her and tapped in her name and password. Toby saw his file come up on the screen, his personal and work details in grey and white text boxes. “We can correct this to make it more accurate. The CV you are holding is just a sample based on the CV you sent us and the demographics of your age, gender, ethnic background, that kind of thing,” Katie continued as she scrolled through the screen, “we can really refine it if we get your other details. Are you ok with that?” “Well, I guess” Toby said, unsure. “So it’s ok for us to ask your University for access to your academic records?” “Sure, but I already said in my CV that I have a B plus average.” “That’s great,” Katie smiled and ticked a checkbox on the screen, “it’s just much more accurate though if we get the actual records. Don’t worry, the information is all online so it’ll take no time at all, we just need your consent to link our system to the university database. Now, how about your credit background? That’s good to show an employer you’re trustworthy.” “Well…” Toby started. “Great, ok then,” she continued typing. “Now, how about tax records, credit card, medical summary, criminal background check and no-fly list, phone and internet records, your social media accounts, internet forum history, blog account keywords, online purchases, club memberships, video rentals, power, water...
I didn't like the pre-written character to begin with but once I got the idea of the story I began to really have an understanding for her. This is one of those ideas that I'd like to explore further at some stage - feels like I've just started to scratch the surface of Chloe's story. nzric - Joie de vivre The bullet train pulled into Voie 24 of the Gare de Lyon with the soft metallic echo of new engine brakes. A dim red digital reading flashed discreetly in the corner of my glasses and I took off the tortiseshell frames, folding them into my attache before the annoyingly conscientious commuter guide could zip its electronic way to my vision. The train was seven minutes late. Not unusual, especially when one considered the winds and rain battering the Bourgogne. I stood to the side with a crush of other commuters as the doors slid open, the rustle of suitcases and damp umbrellas against overcoats as another few hundred passengers made their way into the industrious chaos of the busiest station in Paris. A tall, bespectacled gent in a tan trenchcoat stood in front of me but he took a short step to the side and gestured for me to enter the carriage first. I smiled and gave him a small nod as I passed, skimming my wristphone over the ticket validator strip at the wall. You seldom see old-fashioned manners in Paris anymore and I for one appreciated these simple gestures more than he could know. I have chosen an age of around the late-thirties for the last forty years, any younger and my striking features and chestnut hair draw too much attention of the unwanted kind. The Paris-Lyon bullet has that faint pine smell of public transport cleaner, innocuous but ever present. Four years previously I had made the same journey next to a taut, middle-aged American who had chattered constantly for the whole journey. One of his pearls of wisdom was that the green stripes against the grey-blue background on the seats was a “spitting image” of the Rhode Island State tartan, and consequently I have not been able to take the trip since without thinking of the Pawtucket Red Sox and snail salad. C’est la vie. I took my seat, taking off my damp black overcoat and folding it onto my attache case on the seat facing me. One most often has an excess of space on the Paris-Lyon leg of the trip so I made myself comfortable, although my starched suit itched constantly. The latest fashion off the Milan catwalk was Post-Gender clothing so legions of suave European woman were spending thousands to wear loose-fitting double-Windsored silk ties or, my current choice, a cherry pinstripe suit over a finely embroidered waistcoat and low-cut blouse. It pays to blend into the crowd, especially for these annual Council jaunts. There are rumours and conspiracy theories about our kind. It is mostly dispelled as fairy tale but it helps not to draw attention to ones-self, especially when approaching Lyon. The sudden pelting of rain on the window startled me as the train pulled from the cover of the station, the noise dulled by the thick, triple-glazed windows. I was so immersed in watching the rain that I did not initially notice the bespectacled man take the seat at my elbow. I looked over and he gave me a smile and nod - clearly, I thought, his intentions had not been so noble after all. I ignored him and remained gazing out the window, willing him to take the message and leave. No luck. “They say it will rain until Tuesday,” he said in a thick Parisian accent. His voice was rich and weathered and at any other time I would be tempted to enter into conversation to hear the range of his “pitch and timbre”. As they say. “hmm” I said, politely ignoring. “At times like these,” he continued, “when embarking on a journey with an apparent stranger, it is polite to start with an unobtrusive topic.” He switched to English, “The rain in Spain...” I could not help smirking but refused to be drawn into the conversation. “The Lady smiles,” he said to nobody in particular, “but is not drawn into easy conversation with strangers. She doesn’t know what she is missing. Conversation, shared experience, stories are the stuff of existence. They fill one with joy, open new doors to experience. How did we use to say Chloe? The stuff of joie de vivre?” The words hit me like a thousand bricks. No. A thousand sparks shooting out from my stomach, through to my fingertips, up and out from my scalp. The firework sparks blinded my vision for an instant, then the colours returned richer and clearer. I still looked out the window but I was rigid, my eyes lost focus, only able to see the dull pattern of rain lashing the glass outside. I froze, waiting for him to continue but he was silent, eyes drilling a hole into the back of my turned head. His voice, weathered with age but so familiar. Of course. Joie de vivre. Thirst for life. My philosophy for, how long? Did I still live the philosophy? More than likely, which would make it eighty years if I still believed in the journey that he and I first spun together in the Lyon catacombs. Cheraul. Who saved my life, who gave me the knowledge to give myself life. “Cheraul?” I said, not turning. Of course it was him. I knew it in my soul. They had said it was impossible, ‘they’ being Rosalind Franklin, the discoverer of DNA herself, when I broke into her home in 1961 to demand an explanation or at least an acknowledgement of what I saw in the mirror. The ‘possible’ is that frayed telomeres begin to break within our cells, corrupting the DNA. Skin loses its elasticity, cell mutation starts to overcome the immune system, the organs, the lymph nodes. Normal ageing, which is the companion and curse of all species. And ‘impossible’ is a change in the chemical composition of the enterochromaffin cells that then start to create and spread mutated seratonin, re-tying the telomeres, repairing the damaged skin and giving new life to ageing organs. Rosalind Franklin had said it was impossible. She had told me I was insane as I stood in her doorway with a knife, begging her to watch the skin of my hand knit together as the endorphins surged through my system and I reversed the path of ageing itself. Maybe I really was insane at the time. I had become lost on the journey without Cheraul and it took years, decades to find my way back on the path to the Council. To realise my condition was a blessing, not a curse. And now he was back. In an old man’s guise. I was used to looking past the ravages of time to see the individual underneath, but he had always been so full of life. It was he who initiated me into the philosophy of joie de vivre, constant craving for life for those of us who were born to life without age as long as our lives were rich. But now he had not reversed for how long? Thirty? forty years? “Joie de vivre” I whispered silently. A tear crossed my cheek, an insignificant measure against the rivulets on the pane outside. “Chloe...?” he said plaintively. I was only twenty when we first met. Me a fiery graduate student, full of indignation and spirit. He was the young, handsome tutor with piercing eyes and a dark mane of hair who led the marches through the streets of Lyon, one hand holding a placard and the other always wielding a yellowed Gitane cigarette with a flourish. A few hundred artists and poets crying shame at the might of the Third Reich, cheering as de Gaulle backed Britain in ordering the Nazi force to retreat from Poland. We were worse than naive, but while months crept on and reality crept in and the troops pushed through the Somme and onto Paris in 1940 we were only more convinced our cause was righteous. And as our government fled from Paris with the tail between their legs and the Nazis marched days later under the Arc de Triomphe we were still true and righteous because now our heroes were Cheraul and his heartful slogans, and Jean Moulin with his spirit and sacrifice. My cries for justice were met in 1941 by a bullet through my heart at the Parc de la Tete d’Or in Lyon. Cheraul took me in his arms, breaking from the protest to carry me into a dusty alleyway and stroking my hair, saying how much like him I was as I writhed on the chill cobblestones, my flesh knitting together again as the pain and fear and exhilaration surged through me. And over time, as we continued our struggle from the dark tunnels of Lyon and threw our unlikely band of stragglers against the might of the German army it was Cheraul where I drew my strength. Dear Cheraul, whose body could surge back to life and youth from the barrel of an SS pistol or from our passion as we clung to each other in hope and lust and, lastly - after the French police joined us civilians in unison to chase out the last of the Germans from street to street with bottles and stones - lastly, with triumph. My skin felt as if it were alive with electricity, my scalp burning keenly as the hormones raced through my system, invigorating my cells. I took my gaze from the window and turned to meet his eyes directly. “How dare you.” He was choosing to be around eighty, liver spots appearing on his balding pate and jagged wrinkles cutting intricate patterns through his face. Despite this his eyes were ageless, clear and infinite, but he turned them away under the intensity of my glare. “You disappear without a trace,” I continued, “without even a note. And then, after seventy years... you...” my voice trailed off. I knew that approach was useless. He had never told me his true age - a thousand would not surprise me - but I had learned early on that seventy years to him was insignificant. “I thought I was protecting you...” he started. “Protecting?!” I choked. “I joined the Resistance. For you. I took bullets. For you. Tore you from barbed wire under machine gun fire. And you wanted to protect me?!” “Those times were different Chloe, we had to fight. Hitler forced the whole world to fight.” “And you think I wouldn’t have continued to fight, to go...
Continuing to save all my writingforum stories in one place on this blog. Really enjoying trying out new styles. This one was my challenge to myself to write something that was "written to be spoken aloud" in terms of the rhythm, flow and phrasing. Great to see that some people liked this story - I won the weekly comp and got some good comments/feedback. The story itself is a quaint little tale, not strikingly original, but my focus for this was the style of writing, not a groundbreaking storyline. After all it's intended to be a yarn that some old fella is telling off the top of his head, in a noisy bar after a few too many pints! __________________________________ The Tale of Old Jim (to be told over a pint of lager in a noisy bar) Old Jim Tarrant walked with the devil and he won. He did. The old bugger didn’t know what hit him. This is a yarn about a hardcase bloke and the king of sin, so don’t mind my language if I go blimmin and blastin, and cursin and cussin, ‘cause you’re sure as **** got to have a stronger gut than that if you want to hear any tale of the devil. Now Jim Tarrant lived in a dusty railside hole called Gaviston, what we folks call an outhouse town ‘cause the only souls there are piss poor and **** outta luck. Jim was more of the former than the latter, but the latter caught him right by the short’n’curlies when the devil knocked on his door one day. It was a right old sight, the devil with his horns and his cape and his tail swishing round and banging the patio door with his pitchfork, and Jim said “righto mate, what can I do for you?” “You can invite me in,” the devil said, “I can’t come in if you don’t.” And Jim laughed and said “You’ve got some cheek mate, but you’re the devil after all so I can’t blame ya trying. Why would I invite the devil in?” “‘Cause I can grant your hearts desires” said the devil, and Jim thought that’s a sales pitch if ever I heard one. “Don’t mind if I don’t,” Jim said, “so on your way and don’t bash the camellias on your way out.” And the devil cursed and cussed but he had no choice ‘cause Jim said no. But the devil is the devil and he came to Jim’s patio every day after that. Bang, bang, bang with his pitchfork, “Jim, Jim, let me come in mate, I’ll grant you your hearts desires.” “And if I tell you to bugger off?” “I’ll chase you down and knock your door every day till you make a pact or I drive you crazy.” And Jim knew he would because it was the devil after all. So Jim was in a bind and he said to the devil, “Righto, if you won’t give me peace I need to know what I’m getting in for.” The devil agreed and asked what Jim was on about. “I want you to show me some pacts before I tell you my hearts desires.” And the devil agreed and Jim got one day of rest with no banging and no scorch marks on the patio. He wrote his hearts desires on a piece of paper and put the paper in an envelope and the envelope on the mantelpiece, then the devil came to his door and Jim went outside to walk with him. They walked for years, did Jim Tarrant and the devil. Every day the devil asked for his hearts desires and each day Jim said “I wrote ‘em all down on my mantelpiece but you ain’t shown me what I’m getting in for.” So the devil took Jim to the city of Testimony there was an old man whose wife just died. The man made a pact to bring his wife back and the devil was true to his word, but the wife came all rotten and corpse-ish and the man went full-blown crazy. The hospital came and locked him away where the man was always yelling away “let me see my wife again!”. Then the devil took Jim to the town of Dedication to a man so poor he couldn’t feed his family. And the devil told the man he could make a pact so the family could eat their fill like hogs every night. But Jim was onto the devil and he went to the man and told him not to take the pact, not just yet. Jim was more stubborn than the man was desperate and he stayed while the man worked and toiled and sweated to put food on the table. Every night the man would wring his hands and Jim would say “just one more day at a time mate” till the rains came back and the crops were good, and the family ate well again. And the devil cursed Jim and stamped and strutted but Jim told him alls fair cause the man made his own choice, and they walked again. They walked ‘cross continents, and the devil was on the hunt for his game, and he sniffed out a poor mother in the country of Gharm whose child just died. The devil whispered and hinted and “I’ll give ya your baby back” he said, but she yelled at the devil and chased him out with cussin and the evil eye. Jim was impressed and he and the woman got talking and meeting every day for weeks, so sooner than later they were friendlier than ever. But the devil said “Jim we got a deal” and took Jim away before too long, but not before Jim said he didn’t have a ring but he’d be back if it killed him. The devil said “watch what you wish for mate” and Jim shut up and they walked again. And they went to the city of Knesis to a lazy man with a thick gut and wide appetites. And the man invited the devil in his house and made the pact without thinking twice. He asked for money and women and food and the devil gave him all that. The devil said to Jim “Now this is the right idea ain’t it” and they watched as the lazy man got bigger and drunker and bedded all the women and bought gaudy toys with his money. But Jim made the devil stay to see what the man was getting in for, a deal is a deal after all. Sure as **** the lazy man got tired of his money and trinkets, and jealous of the women, and ill from the food and drunk and when he died early and alone and unhappy everyone agreed he had it coming. So Jim said “Right I’ve had enough” and the devil said a deal’s a deal and they walked back to Gaviston. When they got to Jim’s door he invited the devil straight in, devil hoofs clicking behind him down the hall and the tail knocking picture frames on the way past. But the devil is a gentleman and left his pitchfork on the patio. And Jim got the envelope where inside was six lines on the paper. The devil smacked his lips and rubbed his hands cause the best pacts are the ones from greedy folk. Then Jim read the lines to himself and said to the devil “Righto, on your way.” “What?!” boomed the devil in his big devil voice. “We had a pact. I will grant your hearts desires.” “Well done,” said Jim smoothly, “and you can shove your pact. I’ve had my hearts desires and I don’t need you no more.” The devil stamped and torched the furniture but Jim held firm. He held the list in front of him and took a pen from the mantelpiece. “One. Travel the world. Damn straight we did, right old holiday it was too.” He struck out the line with the pen. The devil cursed and beat the cushions. “Two. See true love in the world,” said Jim. The devil said Testimony didn’t count, the wife was dead and rotten and the husband gone full-blown crazy, but Jim said it didn’t make no difference to them for each other did it. Another line gone. “Three. Save a good man’s soul, and Dedication was the place I did it.” “Four. Find a wife,” Jim said, thinking of his beau in Gharm. The devil said he would never let it happen but Jim said it’s not as if you have any bloody choice in the matter. The pen crossed the line and Jim crossed his heart. “Five. Know the value of a hard day’s work.” The devil said the lazy man from Knesis was his own and he was taking him to hell. Jim replied that some people have it coming to them but at least we can all learn a lesson from it. The devil showed his teeth and said he’d take Jim down with him anyway. But Jim laughed and said “crap to you, we both know it don’t work that way.” So the devil cursed and smoked and fumed, and a great pit opened in the living room and the devil climbed down to hell’s furnace. The pit where the damned souls writhe and cries can be heard echoing through the foul and rancid air. And Jim went to the patio and got the devil’s pitchfork, threw it down the pit and yelled “Now piss off!”. And the pit closed with a pop. Then Jim took his pen and crossed the last line that said, “laugh in the face of the devil”, then he opened his bank book. A train and a plane and a train to Gharm costs a lot for someone from Gaviston and he had a devil of a time getting the money, but Jim of course was stubborn and he made it in the end, and both him and his wife agreed that some things are worth the hard slog. And I’ll drink to that.
Another bit of writing practice here. In this one I really invited criticism as I knew this story wasn't for everyone. Some people 'got it', some people hated it. Frankly, I don't mind either way as long as they give an honest opinion after reading it. I am purposely trying to mix things up and show people something they're not used to. I am using this forum to practice writing styles, and the best way I have found to do it is to write in the 'extreme' of the particular style I am looking at. http://www.writingforums.org/showthread.php?t=40494 Primary onboard AI report: Code 4 alert – Significant hull/infrastructure breach. Commenced incident log – universal time code: Post-incident = y / m / d / hh:mm:ss Log #1 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:00:23 Secured South hull sector EE to KG. Systems report significant damage to primary communications transmittor and string-drive power cells. Log #2 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:00:43 Life support systems malfunctioning through South EE to KG. 88 crew in area, life support implants show 53 deceased. Estimated life expectancy for remaining 35 crew in sector four minutes (exact estimate 00:04:28). Emergency contingency assessment – Potential of positive outcome: 32% likelihood of rescue for 11 of 35 crew in sector. Potential of negative outcome: significant (non-recyclable) resources will need to be utilised from core ship systems. Log #3 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:00:50 Initiating Standard Ethical Assessment Procedure (SEAP). Priority allocation of central processing capacity – Turing Level 8 assessment. Log #4 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:00:52 SEAP complete, report recommends main objective is securing Sector EE to KG to protect remaining 332 crew in ship. Log #5 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:00:53 Jettisoned 35 crew from sector EE to KG. Airlocks secured. Core life support systems diverted. Controlled depressurisation to extinguish chemical fires. Log #6 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:10:04 String-drive malfunction confirmed as initial cause. Minor system damage resulted in navigation error in last transit through string-space distance of approx. 14.32 light years (relative duration of last transit as experienced on ship was four hours (exact duration: 04:01:33)). Ship exited Borosovich Vortex state directly into trans-orbital asteroid KQ3346, resulting in matter flux and explosion. Irreparable damage to ship string drive. Unable to transit to Borosovich Vortex state. Zeta Pulse propulsion only remaining means of transport. Significant damage to primary communications equipment. Unable to transmit via trans-string B-vortex. Light-speed SOS transmission only means of emergency communication. SOS initiated. Log #7 – 0 / 0 / 0 / 00:12:03 Communication underway with Ship Captain Josephine Conrad-Arunsun. Confirmed Standard Ethical Assessment Procedure (SEAP) was followed before South hull sector EE to KG was secured. Confirmed string drive damaged. Approximate travel time to nearest orbital sector outpost using Zeta Pulse propulsion only: Ninety eight years. Confirmed core life support systems damaged. Approximate average life expectancy of 332 crew based on existing life support resources (age adjusted, not including placement in cryostasis): Two years, four months. Confirmed trans-string communication damaged. Time for light-speed SOS communication to emergency relay beacon SZK-Chis99: Eighteen years, eight months (exact time for SOS message: 18 / 8 / 10 / 23:14:33). Log #8 – 0 / 0 / 1 / 23:02:40 Communication underway with Chief Medical Officer Chip Cossen and Resource vice-Chair Ando Claris. Confirmed 103 cryostasis pods available. Diversion of life support resources to 103 pods would reduce life expectancy of crew not in cryostasis by one extra month for every one year of life support for crew in cryostasis. If all 332 crew not in cryostasis: Average life expectancy two years, four months for all crew. If 103 of 332 crew in cryostasis for duration: Average life expectancy twelve years three months for those in cryostasis, four years two months for those not in cryostasis. Responded to request for information about sharing cryostasis pods. Pod sharing not feasible based on average crewmember body mass. Suggested alternative to Chief Medical Officer and Resource vice-Chair: Pod operation based on volume of body mass. Therefore suggested crew prioritise children and short crewmembers for cryostasis. Suggestion was accepted for priority cryostasis of children. Suggestion declined for priority cryostasis of short crew-members. Suggested alternative #2: Automated surgical facilities available to reduce crew body mass. Removal of arms, legs and three-quarter torso would allow for storage of approximately 238 crewmembers in cryostasis with 84% average annual survival rate. Suggestion declined. … Log #19 – 0 / 0 / 30 / 12:03:02 Attack underway on cryostasis unit block D – approximately 43 crew participating. Non-lethal detainment measures activated. Log #20 – 0 / 0 / 30 / 25:10:08 Report to Ship Captain Josephine Conrad-Arunsun. Detainment measures unsuccessful due to crowd size. Damage to cryostasis units. Fatalities reported. Total crew numbers reduced to 308. 84 crewmembers in cryostasis: Average life expectancy adjusted up to 20 years, three months based on current life support resources. 224 crewmembers not in cryostasis: Life expectancy adjusted up to two years, eleven months. … Log #338 – 0 / 3 / 16 / 11:03:43 Total crew numbers confirmed at 301. Confirmed secondary delegation of primary systems access to Sub-Lieutenant Sedor Jarvis. Primary delegation is Captain Conrad-Arunsun. Confirmed terminology change: DY to AE-2 sector now named ‘Jarvis sector’. Confirmed separation of life support systems from main life support trunk line. East NorthEast sector DY to AE-2, including 54 cryostasis units. … Log #377 – 0 / 3 / 20 / 09:03:01 Total crew numbers confirmed at 283. … Log #424 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 15:03:53 Extensive breach in East NorthEast sector DE to DT. Explosive decompression in hull. 62 fatalities confirmed. Airlocks secured. Core life support systems diverted. Log #425 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:09:02 Explosion reported in East NorthEast sector BB-14. 14 fatalities confirmed. 18 crew bio-readings as critical. Log #426 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:09:30 Explosion reported in South sector. 23 fatalities confirmed. 40 crew bio-readings as critical. Attempting to divert life support systems. Log #427 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:09:34 Fault reported in main trunk line for life support systems. Initiating emergency contingency. Log #428 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:09:59 Communication underway with Ship Captain Josephine Conrad-Arunsun. Receiving request to shut down all life support systems in Jarvis sector. Initiating Standard Ethical Assessment Procedure (SEAP). Secondary allocation of central processing capacity – Turing Level 8 assessment. Log #429 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:10:01 Breach detected in main trunk line for life support systems at node KK223433.88J. 14% additional life support systems being diverted to Jarvis sector. Dispatched engineering drone Echo6 for physical re-route. Log #430 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:10:09 Communication underway with Ship Captain Josephine Conrad-Arunsun. SEAP complete. Reported to Captain that completing request from Ship Captain to shut down Jarvis sector life support systems would result in fatalities of 36 crewmembers not in immediate danger. Request declined. Log #431 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:10:20 Urgent transmission from engineering drone Echo6. Drone has received major impact trauma. Lost communication. Log #432 – 0 / 5 / 7 / 10:10:23 Communication underway with Ship Captain Josephine Conrad-Arunsun. Receiving request from Captain to implement non-lethal detainment measures for all crew who have been in Jarvis sector in previous 24 hours. Rapid-SEAP completed. Implemented measures for 14 crew. Did not implement measures for 43 crew – insufficient evidence of any transgressions. … Log #504 – 0 / 6 / 14 / 09:18:32 Communication underway with Sub-Lieutenant Sedor Jarvis at Jarvis sector communication hub. Confirmed – 48 cryostasis pods operational. Confirmed – Life support trunk line irreparable. Significant damage to core life support systems. Confirmed – 143 crewmembers aboard. 62 in cryostasis. Confirmed – Average life expectancy for crew in cryostasis: 14 years two months. Average life expectancy for crew not in cryostasis: Four months, fifteen days. … Log #534 – 0 / 6 / 23 / 12:03:12 Breach in cryostasis unit BG12. 22 fatalities, 8 critical. 2 fatalities, 6 critical. 2 fatalities, 4 critical. 4 fatalities. … Log #539 – 0 / 6 / 23 / 18:04:11 Cryostasis unit BG12. Commence cryostasis for 33 crew, 25 pods. Authority Sub-Lieutenant Sedor Jarvis. … Log #1012 – 0 / 11 / 14 / 09:12:09 Critical bio-reading alert for Ship Captain Josephine Conrad-Arunsun. Initiating remote trauma protocol in aorta implant DJ22. Trauma protocol failed. Log #1013 – 0 / 11 / 14 / 09:12:30 Communication underway with Sub-Lieutenant Sedor Jarvis. Confirmed receipt of request to transfer primary authority for all ship systems to Sub-Lieutenant Sedor Jarvis. Unconventional request – requesting quorum vote of main Steering Committee. Security Chief Ghenz Marconi – response received: Aye. Communications Lead Gabriel Zen – response received: Aye. Chief Operations Officer Heri Samosen – response received: Aye. Request accepted and actioned. Log #1014 - 0 / 11 / 14 / 09:12:40 Critical bio-reading alert for Ghenz Marconi. Initiating remote trauma protocol in aorta implant DJ22. Trauma protocol failed. Critical bio-reading alert for Gabriel Zen. Initiating remote trauma protocol in...
This is a story I put together for the short story comp 'A shot in the dark'. I didn't win, and didn't get many votes. I like the story but I think the problem was the writing is too dense for the type of story it's supposed to be. I still like the story and I think if someone stuck with it to the end they would too, but I know that's not how readership works! nzric - Twilight of Lascaux I scratched at the Chosen wall part with a birch stone and smoothed at the bottom wall with the clay stone. Last time Gne-Runan had brought heat-light he first made me hide in the bedding chamber. Then when he beckoned he held the smallest heat-light dancing hot on a small birch. He showed me the new outline on the Chosen wall part. He said there was a head with horns. A huge body. Next he will shape the men outlines with spears but before that I should scrape in the Chosen wall part and fill it with the shade of darkness. He gave me a new hot birch stone and said he would return. I felt the Chosen part wall outline then crushed the dancing birch light. Even the small heat-light hurt my eyes. And heat-light is not welcome in my place of sleep-and-awake-joined until the start of the Spring cycle. I scrape the birch stone in the Chosen wall part, my hands see that the outline stops before the rising mound and curves just below the running crack where water sometimes goes. Gne-Runan said the next Spring cycle would be when he sees the One God through the seeing stone when the standing stone remains in shadow. He is a great sorcerer. He has shown me what shadows are but to me they dance with the birch stone and birch branch heat-light. Gne-Runan says when he walks in his world the shadows stop their dance and move nearly not at all. He says the One God is a great heat-light that looks small but gives shadow to the whole world at once. It moves nearly not at all but goes across the whole of the world in one day. He speaks in riddles. He says he would show me when I come of age but my place now is in this world of sleep-and-awake-joined, to sleep dream the hunt into life. Sometimes he would enter my world and yell, the stone of my world yelling back to him in laughing. When he yells he would either hit me or give me meat. When the hunt is good he yells and gives me meat hot from the birch stone. Once he gave me a hide, wet with the salt-taste and hairy like bedding. He said it was a horned hide, and he said that its colour was dark and brown like the clay stone. I could not understand – the clay stone is not soft like bedding and the smell of the clay stone is of earth not meat so what is the colour? But when I question him like that he beats my head so I do not ask. But his promise of the largest heat-light is an omen to me. The omen to him was the heavy tree falling nearby and the omen to our people was the death of a newly walking child from bad hunger and grass eating. He told our people he had to wait for the new Spring cycle to bring the largest birch heat-light to my world to read the meaning of the omen. They were not happy but he is a powerful sorcerer so they listened and waited. When the new cycle was two of his sleeps away he brought the small heat-light onto the floor of the main chamber. It hurt my eyes and I hid in the bedding cave but he beat my head until I came near the heat-light on the birch stones. He told me to look at it and keep it with birch stones, or else the largest birch heat-light would hurt my eyes so much I would die. I was afraid so I did as he ordered. I could see the Chosen wall parts with animal and man shapes but they were wrong with the heat-light. They became fixed on the stone, not held suspended in half-sleep darkness like they should be. But I scraped the birch stone on the new Chosen wall part to make the shape closer to the shade of darkness. Gne-Runan was not pleased when he came with the largest birch heat-light. When he is pleased and there is meat from the hunt he brings me a woman tasting of smoke ash. I take the woman and the stones yell along with our yelling until she thanks the stones and returns to the world of sleeping-and-waking-apart to bear child. But this time at the start of the new Spring cycle he says the omens are still bad and orders me into the storeroom chamber to hide. He brings the Big Men with their staffs and cloaks and they talk of the hunt, of the omens and of the Chosen wall parts. It is all wrong. The heat-light fixes the pictures on the stone, the Big Men should not enter, they should not cleave the sleeping-and-awake-joined apart. I moan to my world in the storeroom chamber, slapping my hands on the cold stone in sympathy. The Big Men are frightened at the noise, they say this world is cursed, that if they stay here when there is no heat-light they will be trapped in the world where sleep and awake are joined. “I am the stone alive!” I yell, “Do not bring your heat-light or I will tear your throats and drink your blood.” The Big Men are afraid of me the stone and run from my world taking their heat-light away, but Gne-Runan remains. He tells me I have broken the omen and he beats my body until I can hardly breathe. He leaves me and I know it is for a long time because I am so thirsty I stop passing water, and my stomach growls with hunger. When Gne-Runan returns his head is broken. He coughs and spits, and lies on the floor sometimes sleeping while not moving and sometimes awake sleeping. The Big Men were angry at the omens and scared of my shouts from the world of sleep-and-awake-joined. They beat Gne-Runan’s head and he escaped, but he said they will come with many largest heat-lights to burn the omens away. I tell him I will tear their throats if they come and instead of cursing and beating my head he only coughs. They came when it is the time of Gne-Runan’s sleeps. His head was hot and wet with salt-taste and he groaned but didn’t move when I warned him I smelled birch smoke. I picked him up and carried him through the thickening passage to the deeper chamber, putting him on the farthest sitting furs. Shouts came from the main chamber and as I ran back up the thickening chamber I smelled heavy smoke and saw shadows dancing out of the stone. There was one Big Man and three other men, all with largest heat-lights giving smoke through the main chamber. I moaned at the smoke as it fixes then burns the Chosen wall part pictures, but I cover my mouth with my hands to make no noise. Some of the men held spears, some with armfuls of wet clay – the Big Man shouted at the Chosen wall parts and the men would throw the clay at the pictures, then smooth the dark clay over the pictures and return them into darkness. I ran quickly to the birch stones. The men do not see me – Gne-runan has told me many times the men are tied to their heat-lights and the darkness makes them blind and tired-afraid. I felt past the warm birch stones to find the stones I sometimes use to warm my bedding. I filled my arms with the hand-sized stones but the clatter makes one man turn and he shouts with surprise. I hear a spear dancing off the stone near my head but they are too afraid to follow me into the thickening passage. Their shouts get more urgent and I hear the moist splatter of clay on the walls as they rush their work. I turned back to the main chamber with a warm stone in each hand. There was one man standing with a spear and looking straight at me, but I could see his eyes were tied to the heat-light and blind to me. I drew my arm back like the Chosen wall pictures of the men with spears, then threw the stone with as much force as I could. I have seen the Chosen wall pictures but have never thrown so the stone easily missed all the men, but it makes them stop their yelling and turn to the loud noise. I ran from the thickening passage, straight past the man with the spear. He is not my enemy. The heat-light is my enemy and I tear one of the birch branches from the Big Man, throwing it against the wall so it splinters and dies. This I do with the next heat-light, and the final one. The third burns me as I take it from one of the men and dash it against my chest where it splinters and dies. I scream in the darkness and the stone screams back to me with anger. The men are blind and afraid and stumble against each other, stumble into the wall stones. They are not my enemies. They are my prey. I hold the stone in my hand and beat their heads, one at a time. The last one tries to stay silent but he breathes and shuffles and I pull him into awake, throwing his head against the Chosen wall part so that the stone drips with wetness like during the raining seasons. Silence except for the dripping of the stone, the last high breaths of the birch branch smoke. I go back to Gne-Runan but he is silent and heavy. I put my hands on his mouth and nose and he does not move them away – he has gone from this sleep-awake world joined, he has moved to the world of always sleeping death. I know I cannot stay. The omens have torn the sleep-awake-joined from this world, it is now part of the world of always sleeping death. If I stay my hunger will grow until I always sleep, so I must leave to the awake-and-sleeping-separated world, the world of the small One God with the largest heat-light, larger even than the huge birch branches held by the Big Men. Gne-Runan said if I looked at the largest heat-light it would hurt so much I would die, but I have torn one from the man and struck it on my chest and I did not die. I could bring the omens to the One God and ask him to spare me until I can find another world of sleeping-and-awake-joined. I take some birch stones and the largest clay stone – I can find another Chosen wall parts to sleep dream the hunt and good fortune for me. The sleeping awake separating passage is longer than I thought. It is marked with hand prints against the dark of the stone, and I follow them out. The passage...
Here's a story I put together for weekly short story contest #87 ('Reincarnation' theme). Thanks for all your votes to make this the winning story I put a lot of thought into doing something different in terms of the storyline. I chanced on a catchy idea and the story itself fell into place fairly easily once I realised how I could tell it. As well as the funny/odd scenario of army babies, I wanted to play more on the comedy side with the idea of the "fish out of water", i.e. the stereotypical hippie put into a situation where he's dealing with the stereotypical macho military guys. _______________________________ The Terrible Twos To Josef, the War Room looked like a parody of itself. From the antique wood panelling, the heavily lacquered boardroom table, the overpowering smell of treated leather and the giant hanging maps dotted with giant pins, it seemed more like a film cliché of a Command Centre rather than the real thing. That is, except for all the highchairs. They were easily the most elaborate highchairs he had ever seen, and clearly custom-made for the room. The ten black leather seats matched the remaining five adult-size chairs, the wooden frames the same deep shade as the central table and the elaborate panelling on the walls and high roof. As well as five grownups on normal seats, atop of each highchair were ten babies - each no older than two years old - dressed either in military uniforms or tiny suits. There were four chubby European-looking children, the others with Asiatic, African or Indian features. Some were busily working on the feeding trays in front of them, each tray inlaid with a small keyboard and an official nametag secured to the front. “Ah, ok... so now will you tell me what the hell is going on, soldier man?” Josef whispered, scratching his scraggy beard and turning to the staunch, square-jawed Captain Cooper. The soldier had not talked since they had left Josef’s house and all the questions Josef had posed in the Humvee had been met by stony silence from Cooper as well as the two huge, uniformed thugs they had travelled with. He could barely believe this day was not a dream but he could have sworn he used up the last of his peyote weeks ago. Cooper leaned in, inches from his face. Josef had allergies to many consumer chemicals, and the smell of cologne and pipe tobacco made his eyes water. “Believe it or not, I’m the friendliest guy you’ll meet today. So don’t screw around,” Cooper said softly. “Best thing you can do is take it seriously when they ask you a question. Very seriously,” he added ominously. Josef tried to suppress a giggle. Cooper’s macho act fit in perfectly with the décor, but the melodrama was a bit much in a room full of infants. He was sure he sould have been intimidated but the whole experience was just too surreal. It had begun as a typical day. Josef had started with a dawn yoga session beside his vegetable garden, followed by updating his Centre for Enlightened Living website with his usual “Golden Aura Essential Smile” blog of the day. He had only a small following, around eighty hits per day, but he always trusted his positive mantra that ‘Great changes start with but small steps on the journey.’ Seated at the dining room table for work, for the first hour he had annotated another reference book for his latest research paper on Ayurvedic samskaras for purifying monkshood. He was in his underwear in the kitchen, slowly steeping a pot of colon cleansing tea, when he heard a loud knock on the patio. Captain Cooper and the gigantic thugs had brushed past him as he opened the screen door, followed by four soldiers wheeling hand trolleys with stacks of empty archive boxes. Cooper read him his rights, quoting some obscure passage of the new ‘Nationwide Security’ provisions and Josef was given five minutes to leave, just enough time to grab a wrinkled Enlightened Living t-shirt, some wrap-around fishermans pants and his trusty sandals, as well as his academic portfolio which Cooper had specifically asked for. They drove for around an hour and a half before pulling into a dark carpark. Josef was escorted through what looked like a typical government building except for the soldiers with huge automatic weapons at each entrance. And now into this room that looked like a cross between a command centre and a crèche. Cooper pointed to a high-backed chair at the end of the table, and it was a moment before Josef realised he was meant to sit. As he sank into the plush leather, Cooper dropped a dense folder in front of him, the cover and binding marked in bold letters ‘Project Relife’. Josef laid the manila folder with own papers next to them. The baby at the head of the table banged a tiny gavel. He was a little blond boy with a doll-sized military uniform complete with tiny ribbons. “I now call this meeting to order,” the baby squeaked. The nametag identified him as ‘General Chuck McTavish’. “As discussed, we have with us Mr Josef Zimmermann. This meeting is to brief him on our current status and to assess his ongoing status now that he has been .. removed .. from civilian life.” Josef didn’t know a baby could be so ominous. “Now, Mr Zimmermann,” McTavish fixed Josef with a steady and unweilding, but goddamn cute, glare. “Five years ago you loaded a research paper on your blog, named, ah, ‘Eye of newt and toe of I used to be a frog - the recipe to discover your past lives’.” “Uh, yes Sir, General Baby Sir, uh, Mr General,” Josef stumbled. This was a thought exercise he wrote about finding where in the world your next reincarnation would be. He had sent it to Homeopathic Holistics Monthly, Wiccan Quarterly and Organic Crystal Healing Weekly but each rejected the draft as “too wacky”. So he ended up just posting it online. “Sir will be fine” the baby waved impatiently. “And … four and a half years ago you published a paper in ‘Eco Therapies and Naturist Quarterly’ magazine, entitled ‘Temporal Displacement - Using Ley Lines and Crystal Channelling to discover your next life’. “That’s right, yes.” “Mr Zimmermann,” McTavish straightened himself in his tiny chair. “You have been under government surveillance for approximately four years now. Your history has been screened and the best assessment teams have profiled your background. We have concluded that you are not a covert threat. You are, shall we say, a statistical example of dumb luck.” “Excuse me?” Josef said, startled. “Your theories defy all known scientific explanations but they were... Correct. We have no idea how this happened, other than your own dumb luck, but me sitting here is all the testimony anyone needs. Unfortunately none of your other theories before or since have shown any merit whatsoever.” “Ok, thanks for the vote of confidence,” he smiled sarcastically but was met with intense glares from around the table. “The fact is despite your findings being a fluke, we are now in a situation where we need your advice.” The baby punched in a series of commands on the keyboard in front of him, and the central part of the table flickered, displaying a map of the world with a series of small flashing dots. Ok, Josef thought, maybe this room isn’t so antique after all. “Mr Zimmermann,” he continued, “Our agencies scan hundreds of thousands of fringe theories and opinions every year, mostly posted on personal blogs. Some of them are flagged for more investigation, such as yours. An isolated population in Northern Mongolia was first chosen for testing your recipe for past life regression...” “Hold on man,” Josef started, “you don’t mean you actually... TRIED my recipe?” The baby glared at him. “I don’t know if you are being willfully ignorant or just stupid. That is exactly what I just said.” “No, but what I mean is... that was just a list of the most potent herbs for regression, not a real.. not an actual recipe! To actually make that stuff would be hugely expensive, and probably poisonous if you drank it.” “Yes, there were some setbacks before we corrected the concentration to an acceptable level of civilian losses.” Josef was dizzy, he leaned back in his chair. These crazy babies had hurt people. Civilians. He shut his eyes but the squeaky baby voice continued. “We found your recipe worked but it was scattershot. We could invoke permanent past life regression in all surviving under five year olds in a population but we didn’t know who we would be bringing back. Believe me it is not a pretty sight when a town full of babies all begin speaking different languages and trying to get in touch with their grandchildren overseas. “Now. You will have heard about the Embassy bombing two years ago. There were many high-level government casualties.” Josef nodded. The news guys had said it was probably funded by the Russians, or the Chinese... or Australia, or it could have been the Swedish? He didn’t pay much attention at the time. He looked around the table again and studied the baby nametags. “Of course... I know your names. You’re all...” “Dead. Yes, very inconvenient for us. We lost at least six months with that incident and a lot of man hours. But fortunately the incentive from the bombing declassified this project somewhat and opened up enough military funding for us to look at the next stage. We found your technique to pinpoint the location of a person’s next reincarnation was effective within a hundred mile range.” “So you found where the birth would be,” Josef asked, “then poisoned everyone in a hundred miles to find them? How many people get poisoned?!” Another baby, a cherubic Asian girl on the other side of the table, slammed her fist on her tray. Her nametag read “General Roy Standford”. “Look you little puke,” she piped, “It’s minimal. Less than four percent casualties from drinking the water, ok!” Standford exclaimed. “But your goddamn hippie crystal gazing doesn’t...
My first attempt at macabre fantasy (a la Tim Burton). I got some great feedback in this thread ( HTML: http://www.writingforums.org/showthread.php?t=38212 ) and I agree I would have written it differently if I did subsequent drafts, but here's a record of the original story as I first wrote it... _________________________________ Geppetto (2274 words) “I wish you wouldn’t play with my hand like that when you’re working” Aria said softly. Her long fingers stroked the back of my hand, the nails skimming softly against the grain of my coarse grey hairs. “Sorry,” I replied, distracted. Her hand gave me a soft squeeze of reassurance as I laid it back down on the bench. Splaying her fingers, I buried the scalpel into her palm and moved the hilt lengthways to continue cutting to the base of her wrist. “It’s not as if I mind,” she continued, as I pinned the loose flesh with two small clamps and examined her tendons, “I just know it distracts you.” “And whose fault is that?” I asked, tickling the base of her thumb. Her fingers moved to playfully brush my hand away and within the oozing opening in her wrist her tendons gleamed and shifted in the lamplight. I cleared my throat again, the workshop was well-ventilated but my tight chest made the air feel heavy with decades of sawdust. “It is simply a self-programmed pattern response,” she answered. “Just like a cockroach will continue to hunt without a head, the hand has learned some behavioural routines and is now autonomous.” “So you are saying your little quirks and our petting sessions are what, nothing more than cockroach habits?” I chuckled, which turned into a chesty cough. Aria’s voice changed up a half-octave, “oh, I’m sorry, was that offensive?” she said apologetically. I laid the scalpel back on the bench and turned around, lowering my head to focus on her with the upper part of my bifocals. Aria was about six feet away on a dusty wooden stool I had made way back in my apprentice days. She sat primly as ever, her body placing her in her early fifties, skirt covering her knees and her right arm resting on her lap with an old towel held against the severed base of her forearm. Her long dark hair rested over her floral blouse and partially covered the side of her delicate face. “Darling, no” I said. “Just not completely appropriate. People in love like to think they’re committed heart and soul. It shouldn’t be just automatic.” “But my hand does it because I love you. My hand is a part of me, so it loves you.” “You know it doesn’t work the same way with people.” I said, and turned back to my work. I moved three tendons out of the way before finding the knot at the top of the palmaris longus. I studied the block before choosing some dainty forceps to tackle the problem. “Maybe it would work that way if people had a choice” she said softly. The tone of her voice remained flat and I knew without looking that her face was impassive. The tendon had warped in some way, heat I suppose. I clamped it and pulled steadily, stretching to find where the distortion began, then snipped the tendon free. Its absence would not have a major effect - in fact I would be surprised if Aria even noticed. I had to grant she had a point. “Twenty eight pieces” I mumbled as I worked. “Twenty eight?” she asked from behind me. Her hearing was immaculate. “Yes, it’s an old story. I am saying you are probably right.” That damn light. My eyes watered against the glare of the lamp as I tried to suppress a cough. My throat tightened and I couldn’t find the energy to breathe in. I felt my legs begin to buckle. “Well, thank y...” she stopped in mid-sentence and I heard the grate of the stool as she stood to reach me. I hunched over the bench, my hand bracing the edge, still holding the clamp and the loose flap of tendon, while my other hand clawed at my glasses. I began coughing but I couldn’t draw in a breath. I felt an impact on the back of my head as I hit the floor, and Aria’s thin face above mine as the darkness closed in and I lost consciousness. *** I woke in my own bed. Aria had obviously changed me out of my overalls and into a pair of worn pyjamas. As I levered my way off the bed my toes curled in anticipation of the jagged pain, but my arthritic knees were sympathetic today and I stood without much difficulty. I could smell the bacon and eggs frying before I got through to the kitchen - the eggs no doubt cooked to perfection for exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds. Aria was nothing if not reliable. I first did not recognise the woman at the stove. Back hunched slightly, long grey hair over a shawl. Her shawl. Chiarina’s shawl. “No,” I choked, tears beginning to cloud my vision. She turned. It was Chiarina. At least for a moment. Her wizened face greeted me with a broad smile, the laugh lines etched in her loving features. But the proportions were wrong, only a surface resemblance. The best attempt Aria could make with her own body. “Giuseppe,” she began. It was Chiarina’s voice - that much was perfect. A perfect fraud. “NO!” I yelled. There was nothing to strike nearby except the wall. “Not my wife! Don’t you...” I staggered back into my room and slammed the door. I heard footsteps, then a muffled voice. Aria’s voice. “I did not mean...” “Just...change it” I interrupted. I slumped at the edge of the bed. Too weak. “It was simply muscle control, and my skin is held by osmotic pressure. I just increased the salinity to...” “Aria.” “Yes.” “Open the door.” The door opened and Aria stood, her face returned to normal. She had at least taken off the shawl, although she still wore the black dress that looked dated on her. She walked to the bed and sat down beside me, taking my hand and stroking it lightly. She had both her hands, the right looking as good as new. “You are not her” I said, the shock still wavering my voice. “I can be.” “Your face, maybe. The voice, the posture, maybe even the body, yes. But you will only look like her.” “As I only look like Aria now. You believe I am empty inside now but you love me.” “You are who you are.” “I am what you made me. I can be as much her as the Aria you made me to be now.” I looked at her closely. Her eyes were less than perfect but without my glasses I could almost see the spark behind them. “I don’t think you are empty inside.” “I don’t blame you,” she said, “you once said nobody really knows about other minds. Whether others are subjective like you. Or if they are like me.” “That is if there is a difference," I said, "Turing had a point.” If there was no way to tell the difference between the two states, was it fair to insist there was a difference? “You love me, but you need to stop trying to rationalise it. Go with your heart.” “I do love you with all my heart.” “And your head will follow.” “And my head,” I continued. “And my hands, and my arms, and my shoulders,” I said, leaning into her. She giggled and kissed the nape of my neck, “and my back, and my chest, and …” *** The doctor said the cancer spread to my lymph nodes. One lung almost collapsed and it was only after long and detailed explanation about my unique situation with Aria that I was allowed home. Aria performed flawlessly - she moved with ease into the routines directed by the hospital, and she operated the specialist medical equipment with all the skill of a senior doctor. It was difficult for me to talk with my weak lungs and the choking tubes, so Aria would sit at my bedside and talk as she bathed me or kept me company. “I read about the story you told me” Aria said. She had finished setting the machine for the night and was sitting on a soft chair at the side of the bed. “You were talking about the story of St James Intercisus in the fifth century.” I nodded. My breathing rasped in the dark room, the valve on the oxygen pump giving a soft click each time as I exhaled. “James was a Persian. He didn’t have the courage to confess his faith, but had a change of heart later in life. “The King of Persia condemned him but he had lost his fear of death. He was hung from a beam and cut into 28 pieces, beginning with his fingers and ending with his head.” I nodded again, hoping for her to continue but she just gave me a comforting smile and left the room, closing the door noiselessly as she left. “Yes, that is the story,” I whispered to the closed door, “but have you seen the meaning?” *** All night I could hear noises and shifting in the workshop next to my bedroom. Aria was moving furniture and the metallic noises sounded like she was emptying my old trunks, sifting through the contents then repacking. I was too tired to care. The drugs and machinery made up somewhat for the lack of oxygen in my bloodstream but there was always a heavy feeling of constant, overwhelming fatigue. It was light when she returned to the room. I was now eating and drinking through a tube so no tempting smells of bacon and eggs to greet me. Aria wore nothing but a long grey smock and her dark hair was tied in a neat bun, sharpening her already thin features. She walked to my bedside and expertly reattached my lines to the portable unit on the bedframe. Unlocking the wheels, she swivelled the bed and guided me headfirst through the bedroom door and around to the workshop. The light was the first thing that struck me. Tall lamps focused on an empty spot in the middle of the workshop, which she had cleared and swept. She now wheeled me to the centre under the lights and locked the castors. “I learned more than the nursing routines at the hospital,” Aria said, one hand resting lightly on my arm. “I studied your records. The cancer has spread but it is still in a well-defined area.” Dear Aria, always earnest in her gestures of love. “I studied the procedures the surgeons would follow. I studied the history of those...