fiction
The following are inspired by what I've read, watched and imagined.
Henrietta
PERManent, a tale from Cyberpunk Chile
I Sleep But I Never Dream
White Heat
The following are inspired by people I've encountered throughout my life.
Claudia's Song
Through Someone Else's Eyes
The Ultimate Umbrella Advisor
Statement for a Muse
Prologue to My Greatest Masterpiece or Henrietta
His fingers toyed with the pipe. Fumbling, he let it slip and fall. It made an odd hollow sound as it hit the floor.
Elena trying to button her boots, laughing under the gray sky. Tiny
drops of rain sparkled, a thousand drops embedded deep in her hair. He
shook his head trying to clear the memories.
A young Chinese girl approached. Slow motion, long, slender fingers
traced an imaginary line from his forehead to his chin. She sat next to
him and rested her head on his lap. The scent invaded his nostrils.
Only in parts. He could only perceive things in parts. Nothing was
whole anymore.
Elena waited in the kitchen, her figure dark against the sunrise,
peering out the window, expecting him. And together they would head for
school. She walked briskly, holding his arm, pointing at every flower.
"Look Morice! They are in bloom! Do you see the colors? They seem brighter this year..."
And she would sparkle while she laughed. A joyous laugh of youth that
resounded, still... Buried in deep recesses of his memory.
Elena. Her head cocked to one side, immersed in the
complexities of Arithmetic. And her dark eyelashes. A jungle of black
upon her eyelids. How dare they be so imposing? So complex? Made for
him to worship, reverent, every Tuesday from his desk. At times like
those he reveled in Science, for it shrouded Helena in silent beauty. .
The Chinese girl woke him.
"Sir... The money please."
He dug in his pockets and handed her ten pounds. She looked frail and
withered. The same long fingers handed him his coat and hat.
Outside the sun shone, making everything too bright. He winced as though in pain.
Elena had not stood by the kitchen window. The door was ajar and he let himself in.
"Fetch water. Quickly."
He followed the voices upstairs.
The maid was holding Helena's trembling head. Her limbs convulsed violently, foam dribbled down her chin.
Elena's mother wiped it and then their eyes met. Only for a second.
A strong arm pulled him from behind, leading him out of the
room. In the study, he was sworn to secrecy by Elena's father. A
lobotomy was to be performed in Switzerland. When they returned, he
would be allowed to visit.
He did not see the carriage speed past.
"Bloody hell! Clear the road!" A voice echoing within a dream.
He stood there, far too warm, watching the carriage fade into the
background.
"Elena."
She regarded him, trance-like. Her large pupils quivered. Then
she smiled. A broad grin. Far too broad for her delicate features.
"Elena, Elena..." He seized her violently and pulled her to his chest, sobbing. A thousand times he repeated her name.
He left the following year.
It smothered him. This heat. Abnormal and white, making
everything shine with too much intensity. He took his coat off and sat
on one of the benches. The time of day remained unclear.
It was usually like this. Perception in parts. Never knowing
quite where he was or when. Perhaps it was the Opium, but he knew
better. A lobotomy, a young girl prisoner to a fate of meaningless
grinning and those fractions of daily existence that sometimes came to
him. Never to be made whole.
Rain or white heat. It really made no difference.
So many have said she was “easy going”. A word almost naive in it’s simplicity.
She was anything but easy. Yet I see the mistake.
How she didn’t lose her mind with the full dimension of herself was always beyond me. It’s the curse of those who are different. You see them and you wonder what it could be like to be them? At least for one day.
Every time she discoursed (for she did not speak) on any given subject, you would see it. The hint of intelligence that, when catching you off guard, would produce nothing but confusion. You would find yourself staring at her breasts, her lips and from a distance, the soft voice that reminded you of the involution of mankind due to mediatic tampering, the scope of the feminist movement and the reasons Stalinism ultimately failed.
The sharp contrast between her mind and her body made me fall in love with her. While I could walk around showing her off as my personal trophy, the gorgeous friend that everyone knew (or thought they did) was not a friend. None but I could give faith as to what extent she was intelligent. Or to what extent she wouldn’t let me touch her.
Or to what extent she could write.
But to watch her… ahh… what pleasure I had just from watching her. The way she moved, unconscious of her own seductiveness, the jokes that made you shake your head and wonder where she came up with such things? The naive comments that filled me with crazy lust. The sweetness, the way she cared…
The wild tattoeed ankles, the purple hair, the little-girl voice that promised sex and sex to the fullest, a promise never kept because oddly, she was moral to the core. “Never. I like you but you’re married…” she had once said after a kiss that set me on fire.
Now that her writings have been collected and published, the vultures of mediatic America will not see me live quietly. Interview requests, phone calls, how were her last days spent? How would I describe her… Did we have an affair? And all of a sudden, the missing relatives appear, willing to fill in the gaps my silence created.
Vultures everywhere. Even among her own blood.
That’s what happens when you become an icon. Wasn’t it James Dean that had said “die young and make a beautiful corpse?” Your life is cut tragically short and all of a sudden, those who had never given a shit are all about how she wass one of the influential voices of America, my personal friend, my favorite cousin, the one I spent SO MUCH TIME WITH…
Are audiences so enthralled with her because she was beautiful? Because she was in pain? Because she was a mess? Because doors had been closed and she was made vulnerable to the point where the God she believed in decided to end it all?
Nowadays my smile is sad.
Nowadays I stare at my wife all the time. Trying to see if she resembles her in the least bit. My wife who is not her. My wife who took me back and forgave. Not my infedelity of the flesh. My infidelity of the soul.
My wife who is as curious about her as they are.
"Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream."
Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within A Dream
People had always considered me somewhat of a strange individual.
Being rather sickly from an early age, I seldom went outdoors for
fear of catching an ailment that would send me to the sickbed for months on end.
My mother always worried that I'd never live past my adolescence, but fate proved her wrong.
I managed to survive,
but rather than a blessing this turned out to be a curse.
You see, I had no friends, no one to share the endless hours
that made up my lonely existence. There were books, though.
Countless books in my father's library. Hardly ever read by anyone,
gathering dust and cobwebs, they stood grand and foreboding, beckoning
me as one would seduce an innocent child. So, I turned to them for solace.
I devoured these books as if my very life depended upon it. And perhaps it did.
If it hadn't been for these precious volumes, I would have lost my mind
in agonizing solitude.
At the age of 21, I was a well-read young man.
More than anyone my age. I longed to make use of what
I had learned from Goethe, Plato, Descartes, and so many others
that occupied my time. I heard stories of so and so's son off
to Oxford, or so and so's daughter pioneering as a female student
in Cambridge. I asked my parents to allow me to leave their house
and find my own way and my calling at Oxford. My father
gave me a startled look, his blessing and a large stack of bills.
He wrote to his acquaintances in London asking them to refer me to
their friends in high teaching positions and to secure decent living
quarters for me at Oxford. The post being as slow as it usually was,
put a strain on my nerves. Every day that passed, made me weaker,
filling my head with doubt and fear as to the outcome
of this so-sought-after venture.
Six months later,
the answers to my father's letters arrived.
My father's friends had managed to gain the protection
of an important Headmaster in the Oblieus Wing and they had
secured living accommodations not only at Oxford, but in the capital as well, if
I chose to visit while I waited for the term to begin.
Excited at the possibility of seeing London,
I boarded the ship merely two days later.
After days of many a sea horror, I arrived at Lord Elroy's
house and was persuaded to accept the master bedroom in the
right wing, as the honored guest I was.
My host, Lord Elroy, hadn't yet arrived from trading
negotiations in Eastern Europe, or so I was told.
Trying to make the best use of all the spare
time and solitude given me, I took to the exploration of
the estate. It was located about fifty
kilometers from the outskirts of London and set amidst a forest.
The house was made entirely of stone, making it very cold and dark.
It was lavishly (though oddly) furnished with immense Louis XIV chairs
and lounges, animal fur rugs, oriental vases,
bronze and silver carvings and an assortment of
other oddities. Most of the walls were decorated
with multicolored aigrettes and with velvet tapestries
depicting Hellenic battle scenes. There were many weapons
lying around as well, strange sables kept in ivory cases, dueling swords,
jeweled pistols and other contraptions I could not recognize.
My in-house wanderings also led me to the library, where all Elroy
seemed to have were books written in Arabic or Latin. I perused through
some of the volumes, but none captured my fancy, most pages featured the
strangest symbols and the feeling that had come over me as I read them,
was not a pleasant one.
A week after my arrival, I caught cold.
Fever and chills ate away at my body, leaving me bed
ridden for many days, delirious and rambling. I cannot say low
long I was in this state, for all notion of time was lost on me,
but I do remember waking to find an angel's face peering into my
eyes with an amused expression.
"I though you would never get well, sir.
Our good Lord should be praised for such blessings as a speedy recovery."
I quickly realized the apparition was human.
My fate had been sealed. I who had never so much as exchanged a
hello to a young lady, was now staring into the eyes of who was to
be the one and only love of my life. Perhaps if I had known then,
what I know now, I would have risen from my sickbed and left as hastily
as Amnon had left Tamar once relieved of his sinful desires.
The days went by ever so quickly, making my passion for Henrietta
grow with each sunrise, its feeble rays trespassing the wilderness
of the foliage as surely as they had trespassed my heart. I had
never embraced even the slightest suspicion of Lord Elroy having
such a heavenly blessing as a daughter. The only explanation
Henrietta gave of her absence was a year's stay at an Italian convent.
She never spoke of it again and we elapsed into blissful companionship,
the likes of which neither Zeus nor Leda had ever possessed.
Yet no happiness is eternal and often the price we must pay
for finding a single moment of it far exceeds the joy that its seconds bring us.
Lord Elroy had arrived on his black stallion, without prior notice,
on a dark evening in May. He had been riding in the rain for many miles
and appeared to be feverish. He hastily greeted me, said not a word to
Henrietta and proceeded to lock himself in his study. I glanced at my
love quizzically, disappointed with his disregard for my presence, which
he himself had sought to bring about. Henrietta had no answers to this
mystery and only commented that sometimes her father would lock himself
in his study for days on end. He would eventually come out not bothering
to explain the activities which had kept him there for so long.
May turned into June and I was long overdue at Oxford.
I left without even a word of farewell to my host, yet my
love and I exchanged promises of faith eternal. The moment the
first semester ended, was the moment I would return and ask for her hand in marriage.
Oxford held many a surprise and I was among the most prominent students,
yet my mind was not in the classrooms but near London, close to
Henrietta's lips. As soon as the semester ended, I headed back to
fulfill my promise of courtship. Upon arriving, the servants informed
me that Henrietta had caught a strange fever and her passing away would
arrive at any time. I ran up the stairs in a daze, as if in a hazy dream
and found her lying on the linen sheets, pale and withered, barely breathing.
She clasped my hand in agony and whispered the most terrible words I
would ever hear. Then she passed away in peace, assuring me that
she would be received by angels and would make room for me.
With tears in my eyes I turned around and found Lord Elroy
standing next to the fireplace, a ghastly expression on his pale features.
"Monster" I cried. "Oh loathsome cursed creature who has sealed the fate
of his own offspring!" My tears flew freely as my voice reached shrill tones.
I grabbed a dagger from below the pillow upon which rested my love's golden
curls and plunged it through his heart. Lord Elroy collapsed to the floor
and I knelt beside him, slowly awaiting his death with nothing but a sense
of accomplished duty.
"It is the way it must be", the ghastly creature replied.
"She was metamorphosing… I… I had tried to prevent it by
reading all I could, for not even I knew the cause of this
horrible condition, but I found nothing in the dark books
to tell me how to reverse the true nature of my offspring."
He gagged and blood spurted through his mouth.
"I poisoned her a little each day.
I fed her garlic in small dosages, praying she would die
a death of redemption, a death to set her free from the evils
that awaited her should her true nature reveal itself. She knew
what I was doing for she had found out my secret while in Italy and accepted,
grateful, the poison I fed her. She never lost faith in her God and he blessed
her with a peaceful death yet cursed me with years of having my daughter's
blood on my hands. Till you came. In her love for me, she ensured that
you would do the one thing she could not. Rid me of my miserable existence…"
Lord Elroy uttered his last sigh while looking gratefully into my eyes.
Both Elroy's and Henrietta's corpses
were burned according to my instructions and the
estate was sealed and forgotten, weed and vines covering it
until it disappeared amidst the foliage. Yet the books I kept.
I did not go back to Oxford. Instead, I
went back to Ireland to pursue a career in journalism.
I met my mentor there and he persuaded me to work in the
London theatre business where I met my future wife.
When performances were in order, I would go to the bleak apartment
I had secretly rented in Whitechapel to read Elroy's books and work
on the novel that would be my legacy to mankind.
A description of the horrors I went through, only
fictionalized, for no reader would dare believe the true story.
I now finish this account with the hopes that one day, it shall
too, be published. For there is nothing in the dark that will not,
in due time, see the light of dawn.
B. Stoker, London 1879
back to top
PERManent, a tale from Cyberpunk Chile
"Mass Propaganda has come a long way since Edward Bernays.
He devised the concept and he used the media to deliver a message,
to influence the masses. We don't deliver any message. We are the message.
We don't influence the masses, we control them."
William Gatekeeper I, Victory Speech at the Gatekeeper Industries Rally.
His grandmother used to tell him that things were quite different in Ancient Times.
The world had boasted "countries", and these countries had been ruled by "presidents"
that were voted for by the "people". It had sounded unfathomable to him and no matter
how many times he studied Arcane History at the Institute, he could never fully grasp
the concepts. Even so, he had continued his inquiries because he had felt drawn to
the freedom Ancient Times suggested. Of course the Institute had frowned upon his desire
to learn more. Their star pupil, the one with the scholarship had chosen the least
productive subject to major in. But they didn't have to worry for long…
He stopped his research upon the death of his grandmother and joined Corporate Ops.
********
Roger Pathfinder lived and worked at Gatekeeper Headquarters,
Corporate Operations in Region 24 (ex- Puerto Montt, Chile).
It was a warm place, surrounded by trees and steel buildings.
Fountains lined the Main Avenue and the sidewalks were still walkable.
But it was the light that made all the difference to Roger. He had
worked in Region 22 (ex-Buenos Aires, Argentina) where everything was dark,
the streets dirty, Chinese neon-lit food takeouts made the sidewalks hell to walk on,
Spectrovision ads were everywhere, blasting their publicity from all
directions. The only comfort most people seemed to find was in Permalehide, the
drug of choice. Roger was addicted to it as one is naturally addicted to sugar.
Without sugar, the body cannot function. Without Perm, Roger wasn't able to get
out of bed. But he didn't present the effects of Perm. He wasn't permed-out at all.
He was constantly focused and always clad in elegant microfibre suits.
He had the Genetics Division to thank for that. They had come
up with a way to infuse the body with Perm
minus the high. They called it No Perm. An addict, Roger had never really
been stoned on the real thing.
Roger was a Middle Man.
An informal name given to the
Narcotics Officers of the New World Order.
Bluntly put, he was a Narc. As was the way with Narcs,
Roger's bloodstream had been saturated with No Perm over a period of one year.
After that, there was no possibility of Rehab. He either had to have his daily
shot or die from the severity of the withdrawal symptoms. His addiction to
No Perm was so strong, his nostrils had developed the sensory ability to
detect the real thing within 200 meters. This was the Corp's ultimate goal,
a Narcotics Force that didn't use Stealth-seek devices any longer, but living
agents instead. There were Middle Men for most drugs around, but the elite
were the Perm Narcs. Perm dealers were making huge amounts of
money that taxpayers would otherwise invest in what Spectrovision offered
them (everything from domestic appliances to wardrobe to vacations in some
distant unpolluted shore). People on Perm had no use for such things.
After several chats with Perm addicts or Victims, Roger was under the
impression that the Perm high was somehow a mind-opening dream state.
It would seem the mind abstracted thus discovering something that the non users
could never know. After the high had passed, you continued about your
business as usual, but you had become Permed-Out. Your wife would notice,
or your kids or your boss and the Middle Men would get a call. Or you could
always anticipate the jail sentence
and join the Underground. In any case, one brief
interrogation was all it took and a sniff around your living quarters to know you had tried Perm.
******
Roger often thought of Priscilla. Victim #22000340-K.
"Your system controls you and you don't even know it".
"And how, in your opinion, would the system control us?"
Roger had kept the argument up because this Victim had been lovely.
"They program you from birth, you shit head… What is wrong
with you? From the moment you come into this fucking world they
got you thinking, buy, buy, buy. Watch Spectrovision, work for
Gatekeeper, marry, get a house, send the kids off to the Institute.
Hell, they even made books so fucking expensive that no one reads.
No one. Have you ever met anyone who reads, Agent Shit head?"
Roger had pondered this in silence for a while and realized that no.
He had never met anyone who read.
"You see? Doesn't that strike you as odd, asshole?"
The Victim had moved in her seat and spread her legs out to him.
"Wanna fuck me, don't you?"
Roger had looked away, startled at the brashness of her question
"It's ok that you wanna fuck me. It's instinctual, a natural reaction.
But these mind controlling fuckers program you to do it only once you're married.
If you even try to do it before you probably won't even function.
So, Agent Fuck face, even if you wanted to, you probably wouldn't get it up."
Roger hands had begun to tremble. The Victim stood up
and pressed her body close to his. "It's ok Agent, you're part of a system, it's really not your fault".
Patrol had carried the Victim away
to the Detention Unit, but Roger had made
sure a bribed orderly delivered a retinal code for her
to open her cell door. He knew it was risky. He knew
better than to bribe an orderly. She had escaped that same
night and had gotten in touch with him. He had
managed to persuade her to leave his apartment
and had given her plenty of Gates. Enough to buy a new
identity and go East, where Gatekeeper Corp didn't have any mergers. That was six years ago.
He had never heard from Priscilla again.
Something in Roger had changed that day. He had begun to
understand why Perm was so popular. Why respectable
workers were paying huge amounts to get it. To be able
to enjoy it at least once a week. And why they couldn't
get back to normal once they had tried it. Roger found that all the Victims
had a spark of life, a certain desire to live and breathe that law-abiding citizens didn't...
It was beginning to get dark. Roger turned on his laptop and checked
the cases assigned to him for the following day.
He went to bed a few hours later and dreamt of his grandmother.
******
His grandmother had said Freedom was the right of every individual.
And most "governments" based their ruling systems on this.
When they hadn't, it was called "dictatorship".
******
Region 24's sky was gray.
The AtmoTender had probably malfunctioned.
Roger got up and made coffee. The Holoview
began beeping and he turned it on. It was Neyham Treadstone.
"Hello Roger, good morning."
"Hello."
"I've got some news. The Section 20 Middle Men made a huge bust.
A dealer with 3 kilos of the stuff, they just flew him in. He asked
to be specifically interrogated by you, otherwise he wouldn't talk."
"Why didn't you just inject the Serum and keep him at S20?"
"We did but nothing happened."
"What do you mean nothing happened?"
"Nothing happened. It didn't work. He must have
a Neural Stopper and we don't have the time to get him
into surgery. Section 20 has no doctors available."
"Why did he ask to be interrogated by me?"
"He said you'd understand."
"Understand what?"
"I have no idea, Roger. X2 thought it all rather distasteful,
but section 20 really needs the name of his supplier. Concrete,
that's what the dealer calls himself, said he'd give it only to you.
Roger… ahh… I'd be careful if I were you. Word has it you might
sympathize with the Underground… I mean, come on… it's the first
time a dealer's asked to be interrogated by someone in particular."
Roger turned off the
Holoview and fetched his coat.
It was going to be a long drive to
Interrogations. He cussed under his breath. He had never cussed before. He liked it.
He had forgotten his daily injection and pulled over.
He always carried spares in the glove compartment.
He opened his shirt and injected the No Perm into his stomach.
He closed his eyes wanting some sort of Perm induced state to seep
over him, but nothing happened. One day he'd try the real thing.
At Interrogations, Alabama, the flesh and blood secretary, greeted him warmly.
"Why Mr. Pathfinder. I thought you weren't doing this sort of thing any more."
"I wasn't . But something's come up."
"Oh… That must be a blow, especially after being out of the field for so long."
"I'm still a Middle Man, Aly." Roger went inside.
A young man with dirty
dreadlocks was sitting in a
leather chair, Elecuffs on both wrists.
The Director was standing next to him. Roger winced, the man reeked of Perm.
"Come in, Roger. This is Concrete."
Concrete nodded.
"We've decided you conduct
the interrogation here, as Concrete has behaved so well. That way both of you would be
more comfortable."
"Anything to make cooperation flow easier, right?" Concrete smiled,
a big white friendly grin.
"Well now, I'll just leave the two of you alone."
The Director walked out, retinally sealing the room.
"Now, none of us can get out." Concrete smiled again, but this time it wasn't friendly.
Roger walked over to him, his back to the desk. He moved his lips knowing most dealers
spoke Silent.
"Camera, Mike, Desk", Roger said in Silent.
"I've got a message from Priscilla. Your place 10 o'clock." Concrete knew Silent.
"What is it you want to say to me?" Roger asked out loud and pulled up a chair.
"As a Middle Man you understand the Perm world. I just want you to get me a fair deal.
Witness Protection and a room with a view. I've never killed a soul and I've got the name of the supplier. I
think I deserve something special, Agent."
"I can't guarantee it."
"Then there's no name."
"But there's still hard labor at Canyon. Tell me and I'll do what I can."
Concrete looked at Roger and spoke Silent. "Freedom." He jumped up
and shook his hands ferociously. The discharge made him convulse.
He was dead in less than ten seconds. The door opened and the Director ran inside.
"What…"
"Suicide."
"But…"
"He wanted Witness Protection.
I couldn't guarantee it. He knew it was
over the minute they arrested him. Even if
he had given us a name, Headquarters wouldn't
grant him Protection. A big name requires no trial,
he knew that. He was just trying to play his last card. Fool around with Section.
S20 must have been pretty desperate to go along."
Roger walked out without looking back.
********
Victim #22000340-K was sitting on Roger's leather couch.
It had been a present from Chief, the head of Section 24.
"So, Agent…" She eyed Roger from head to toe. "Looking good, aren't we?"
Roger shook his head. "You shouldn't be here."
"Relax Agent, they don't tail you. No one is parked outside… Yet…"
"After the stunt with Concrete, they'll be keeping an eye on me, you know that don't you?"
Priscilla got up and sat on Roger's lap. She looked into his eyes. "I've missed you."
Roger felt the warmth of her lips, her tongue…
"I have the Perm, the Unsynth version, the latest…"
He looked at her, his heart pounding.
"It's in my bag, along with the needle."
"What for?"
"The day you let me off the hook, it was no turning back… You knew this."
She walked to the couch and opened her bag. "Here…"
Roger took the needle and opened his shirt. He felt a sting.
He had never prayed before, but he prayed now. Prayed it would
have some effect on him.
"Relax… Sit back and enjoy."
Priscilla's voice seemed distant.
He closed his eyes and let himself sink, deep into the darkness, deeper…
There were flashes of light at first and faces.
Blurry. Roger felt weightless, walking on clouds.
He felt he could do anything, be anyone he chose.
The clouds were endless possibilities. He thought of books.
What would being a book feel like? The faces nodded approval.
He nodded back. Time passed but Roger couldn't tell if it had been days,
hours or minutes. He opened his eyes. Priscilla was staring at him,
her eyes glassy.
"The world is what you make of it…" She said.
"Money corrupts the soul…" Roger didn't know why he had said that. "I want you now."
He got up and took Priscilla by the hand, leading her into the bedroom.
It was a cold morning.
Roger was standing by the window,
watching Priscilla sleep. She looked so beautiful,
her black hair, her curves. His heart ached. He had never felt that, ever.
He wondered why the AtmoTender was malfunctioning again.
Priscilla woke up.
"Roger…"
"Yes."
"There's a huge shipment of Perm coming in two weeks. The biggest ever.
It'll benefit a lot of people.
S24's Middle Men know about it. They even have the coordinates.
It'll be coming in via San Antonio."
Roger remained silent.
"We need someone to hack the computers and delete the data, today."
"Who is we?" Roger knew but he wanted to hear her say it.
"The Underground."
"They'd trace it back to me."
"And we'd pick you up as soon as the hack is over. If you do it today, they won't know, they won't
be prepared for something like this, so soon...
You'd be part of us. Concrete would have died for a reason."
"I can't survive without the drug."
"The Lab can do it. They created Unsynth Perm for you. For yesterday."
"As planned, right?"
Priscilla looked away. "Actions are planned, feelings aren't."
Roger went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet. He took the
No Perm and filled a syringe. He injected it into his stomach, wiped
the excess blood with a cotton swab and went back in the room.
"Here…"
"Is it No Perm?"
"Yes, take it to the Lab and don't come back. Pick me up at 11AM."
******
His grandmother had once said human beings had Free Will.
Roger had always wondered what Free Will felt like.
******
He greeted Nemba, his HoloSec
(a flesh and blood secretary was
available only to very few high-ranked Corporate officials).
Nemba read his schedule for the day: Meeting at 12PM, Presentation at 1PM.
Nothing else. Roger asked the reason for the lack of afternoon appointments.
Nemba didn't process those kinds of questions right. She had no answer.
He thanked Nemba and stepped into his office.
He turned on the Holo Sim, put on the gloves and
the goggles and began walking through the Hologramed archives.
He searched the system for Perm Friday, Coordinates.
It was restricted and required Chief's retinal code.
Roger did a thorough check, looking for any glitches that
would allow him to hack. He found one. He was good at this trade he had accquired
after leaving the field. But it would take him days.
He only had two hours. Roger sent Nemba a No-Disturb message and began
working. One hour and 30 minutes later, his blood pressure began dropping.
He felt exhausted. But he had deleted the coordinates and all data relating
to the shipment.
He turned off the Holo Sim and sat down.
He asked Nemba for coffee. A small compartment
in the wall opened and a mug came out. Roger got
up and headed towards the wall, he missed the door opening.
He turned around and saw the orderly he had once bribed together
with the Director of Interrogations. The orderly looked like a man.
He had been just a kid
back then. Why would he talk now? After six years? The Director he could understand,
perhaps he had been careless and the camera had caught his lips moving, or Concrete's.
"Roger. I think you should come with us."
The Director held out elecuffs. "I don't want to use these."
Roger stared at the clock on the wall, 10:45 AM. He inhaled and ran straight into
the Director knocking him down.
He kicked the orderly in the groin
and headed for the hall. Nemba stared at him…
"Unlock the windows, Nemba." Nemba hesitated.
"Nemba, you're under my orders. Unlock them."
The windows sprang open and Roger jumped two floors.
He landed on his side. Blood began gushing from the wound on his forehead.
He felt some arms around him and heard Priscilla's voice.
"Get him into the car, quickly."
"Watch out, Middle Men, over there in the bushes!"
"Hurry the fuck up!"
He heard Stun Lasers and smelled smoke. Then it all went black.
******
Prisiclla came up from behind and held him. He took the needle from her hand.
"You'd better do that now.", she said, her eyes warm.
Roger looked at her and smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he had
done that.
Probably while his grandmother was alive.
He kissed Priscilla's forehead.
Smiling would be permanent from now on...
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Claudia's Song
"Can I go play next to the riverbed?", the little princess asked.
The king opened a small ivory chest. Inside was a small crown, made for a child's head. A beautiful platinum sphere boasting emeralds and a large diamond.
"First, put this on, my dearest."
"Why?"
The king smiled affectionately at his young daughter.
"Why you ask? The reason is so simple..."
He placed the crown on her head and led her to the mirror. The princess watched her reflection smile back.
"You are the Princess. Be proud and walk holding your head high."
There was a knock on the door and a young lackey came in.
"Look Marcello! Look at my crown!"
The lackey smiled at the little princess. "Where is it principessa? Show it to me."
The princess stared at him in dismay.
"You may leave Marcello. I will call for you later." The king caressed his daughter's hair while the lackey bowed and left the room.
"Papa?... Why did Marcello not see my crown?" She regarded her father sadly.
"Because true beauty is invisible to the eye. Even if no one should see your crown, you know it is on your head and you walk accordingly, with your head always, always held high... You are a princess, let no man tell you otherwise."
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Through Someone Else's Eyes
The farrier stared at the emissary.
"His highness seeks to see me?"
For a quarter of an hour the emissary had tried to convince the farrier that the king had requested his services. The farrier was to go at once and present himself in the royal chambers for a private consultation.
Igo the farrier looked up at the sky for a moment, testing the weather. Bleak dark clouds nested in the autumn sky. Not a good sign. The Gods must surely have nothing in store for him. This visit might be a danger. He adjusted the bear skin over his shoulders and silently prayed in Norse that Thor would grant him strength and honor. And Loki grant him slyness.
"I shall go. Lead the way."
Igo followed the emissary on his horse. A magnificent stallion, sent to him by the king. Only someone worthy of high honors would have a steed from the royal stables sent to him. Igo wondered... He was after all a Norseman. Of the same tribe that had pillaged this English town so many years ago. Igo had been just a boy then, forgotten on English soil in his countrymen's effort to make their getaway. His father, seeing Igo alone on the coast, dived into the cold sea. His son would not die alone. Not in the hands of the English.
But the English had spared their lives... father and son were allowed a small shack to dwell in. A wooden roof, four stone pillars and not a single wall. For food, the remains of pig meal were thrown near the shack. This seemed to the English greater punishment than death.
Igo's father, a strong red headed bull of a man decided that defeat was not an option and he set out to make a living practicing his trade. He never made a sword again, but he had horse shoes to compensate and walls for his shack as well as a decent meal for his son. When his father passed away, Igo inherited a craft if not worthy of his ancestors, at least worthy of food every day. He hadn't much to live by, there being two other farriers in the village, but his prices were the lowest and his shoes the best. Yet the respect of the villagers never came easy. They would seek his services and then spit on the very ground Igo tread on.
His father had said it. The village would never truly accept them. So after his father's death, the boy plunged into the craft of sword making with a vengeance. His only respite in a town all too cold and dreams all too frozen.
"We're here. Come Farrier."
Igo was woken from his reverie by the loud descent of the wooden plank leading into the castle. He followed the emissary eyeing the whereabouts suspiciously.
Two lackeys approached and saluted the Norseman. They bowed their heads ever so slightly. One took the reins and bid Igo descend from the horse. The other patiently waited for Igo to follow him.
The emissary was standing at the top of the stone stairway. Igo thanked the lackey gruffly and entered the castle behind the emissary.
He was taken into a mammoth hall, adorned with wool tapestries of many colors, a rusty coat of arms behind the throne and what seemed to be no less than a hundred torches to illuminate the stone walls. In the front stood the thrones. One seemed to be smaller than the other and was occupied by a blonde child of no more than twelve years. The child was a heavenly sight to behold. Eyes of the clearest blue and delicate infantile features, yet there seemed to be a purpose behind those childlike eyes. A certain greatness. In the center the king sat a top a massive throne draped in fine fabrics. Aging, his hair white, the king could not be spoken of as old or weak. But strong and dignified.
Igo bowed, painfully aware of his torn boots and dirty bearskin.
The king cleared his throat.
"My son tells me you are a man of a respectable nature, farrier. Is that so?"
"I would like to believe it, your highness."
"He also tells me you are a sword maker, though I only took you for a farrier. But given your blood and upbringing, it could be possible..."
Igo remained in silent wonder. How on earth could the prince know of his trade?
"I saw you through your window," the prince said as though reading Igo's mind. "Making the most beautiful artifact I have ever seen. A sword fit for a king of kings that was..." The child looked at Igo with true respect.
"Farrier, I would be honored if you would make the kingdom's new Coat of Arms. The one that adorns our walls is all too ancient." The king arose from his throne and approached Igo. "And if your kindness exceeds our wrong doings to the child you once were, then perhaps you might consider a sword for my son."
Igo looked aghast, at a loss for words. He finally managed to stutter out some phrases of acceptance.
"No one has ever..."
"Showed you this respect?" The Prince's eyes grew large. "But I've always respected you, Farrier.
I watched you standing below your window, many an afternoon. If you could have seen yourself
through my eyes, you would know."
"Know?"
"Know your worth."
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I Sleep But I Never Dream
Rick
3:45
I'm wide awake. Laura comes to mind and I slowly hum...
"Laura is the face in the misty light
footsteps that you hear down the hall
the laugh that floats on a summer's night
and you can never quite recall…"
I love Johnny Mercer.
I wish Helen would stop giving me the damn sleeping pills.
I never take them. They usually go straight from my mouth to under my mattress.
I must have like thirty of them all stashed under there.
But Helen never notices, she would swear on her life that I take her pills. Of course
she would, after all she's getting paid to take care of me. Anyway, I wouldn't take
them even if I wanted to, I never dream. Only when I'm awake.
And then there are those other pills.
The blue ones. I really hate those.
The first couple of days they made me feel like a zombie.
It was so bad I couldn't put my ideas into words. I even stopped seeing Laura.
I can't live without her, so I stopped taking them too. I throw them down the
drain every morning. But I'm kinda worried though. Helen suspects something.
She waits until she sees me drink the water, but she doesn't open my mouth to see.
I respect her for that. Cause she respects me.
Helen
Helen looks out the window. It's 3:45 and she can't get to sleep.
Luckily, financial worries are no longer what keeps her wide awake.
It's the kid, Rick. She's lived there for six months now
and Rick doesn't seem to be improving. Mrs. Goldberg is getting worried.
"Helen, Rick seems to be getting more aggressive, don't you think?
I mean… I thought it would be over when he started his new medication.
And the other night… I heard voices. I thought I was
dreaming but it was Rick, I'm sure… I just…"
"Mrs. Goldberg, please", Helen used her most soothing tone.
"Rick is getting better, I know it, sometimes it's just a matter
of adapting to the new medication… I wouldn't worry.
God knows you have enough on your mind to start worrying."
But God also knew Helen suspected Rick wasn't getting better.
Schizophrenia at age 15. Easily treatable with medication if
discovered on time. But Rick wasn't responding.
He was as fidgety and nervous as the day she first met him.
And six months have already gone by.
Helen's reputation is on the line.
She always thought of herself as a fully capable nurse.
Well trained, responsible, successful at helping mental patients
adjust to a new lifestyle…
Helen looks tired and shabby.
Her uniform, though spotless, is never able to conceal her weariness
and frustration. She might look professionaly
attired but those dark circles say it all.
She picks up the ironed uniform and hangs it in the closet.
If Rick should worsen, then it's back to the doctor,
new medication and here we go all over again.
She was hoping to finish this one in eight months
and use her savings to go to Mexico and get her daughter back.
Now it's all going down the drain.
Rick
4:30
Laura hasn't come tonight. She comes every night.
But she didn't come yesterday either.
My hand hurts from so much writing.
She told me last time that we could be together forever.
I so want that. But she's asking me to do something that would hurt my parents.
I didn't really know why Laura told me to put
all the pills under the mattress. It would have been
safer to throw them down the drain like the other ones.
But she said they would come in handy.
Now I know why. She also said she wouldn't see
me again until I decided to do what she asked me. But I'm scared.
Helen
4:30
Helen has never opened Rick's mouth.
She's always thought a private nurse should show the patients she believes them.
But now she isn't so sure. She slowly gets up and puts on her bathrobe.
She thinks hot milk will help her sleep.
She could always take one of Rick's sleeping pills,
but she doesn't like to medicate herself.
Rick
4.45
I'm going crazy. If Laura doesn't come in ten minutes I'll do what she's asked me.
I know I'm being a jerk but the truth is, I don't want a life without her.
I don't know how Mom will take it. Dad will be pissed off.
Goodbye Mom and Dad and Helen. If you read this I just want
you to know that I'm really sorry but I want to do this.
I'm not sad. I just want to do this last thing for Laura.
*******
Helen went inside the office and greeted Dr. Neumann.
It had been a year since the whole thing happened
and she wondered why he had called her under
such short notice to discuss something she thought he knew.
The doctor explained that Rick was due for
another psychiatric evaluation in a few month's time
and he had only read Helen's statement.
He wanted to go over it with her in person.
Helen sat down on the leather couch feeling a bit awkward.
Doctor Neumann offered her a chair and coffee.
Then he just remained silent, staring at Helen.
He cleared his throat, waiting for her to begin.
That night Helen remembered she couldn't sleep. She didn't mention
her suspicions or that worrying about her daughter
had kept her up.
It was all a little fuzzy now
but she recalled having woken up at 9:30.
She had just had a dream. She dreamt of Rick and pills.
Helen hardly ever dreamt and if she did, it
usually involved strange dreams like this.
She thought it was some sort of gift.
Once she had dreamt of her mother and tires.
Two days later her mother was run over by a drunk driver.
She took a sip of the coffee Dr. Neumann handed her.
He added nothing to her story so Helen continued.
She had gotten up and made breakfast for the Goldbergs.
Then she prepared a tray with Rick's medication
and cereal. She was running a little late
that day because her usual starting time was at nine.
She went up the stairs in a hurry and
saw Rick lying on the bed, fast asleep.
This had made her happy as Rick was always
awake when she came in with the tray.
Afraid of disturbing him, she
left the tray on his desk,
trying to figure out how to wake him up gently.
She caressed his hair and whispered his name.
Rick didn't move so she shook him slightly.
And then she saw a glass of water on the
nightstand and some red pills. She remembered running
to the Goldberg's room, opening the door and picking up the phone. She
didn't remember much else after that.
The doctor just nodded his head,
satisfied with Helen's story.
He asked whether it was she who had found the journal. Helen honestly didn't know.
Dr. Neumann told her he didn't
think Rick would leave the ward anytime soon.
Rick had lost touch with reality. They had
taken the straightjacket off a couple of months ago,
but he wasn't really responding to therapy or medication.
Helen looked at the floor and spotted a crumpled
piece of paper. She looked up at the doctor
and then at her daughter. The little girl hadn't said a word.
"She's very pretty. How old is she?", Dr. Neumann smiled at Helen.
"She just turned three." Helen looked at him nervously.
"She doesn't talk. At all. She's been through a lot."
Helen got up quickly and took her daughter's hand,
while heading towards the door. Dr. Neumann thanked
her for coming all the way from Boston and asked if
he could send her the name of child specialists he knew.
Helen nodded and walked out the door.
It was cold and the Manhattan sky was a menacing gray.
She lifted her daughter up in her arms and hurried towards the subway.
As she approached the stairs she
looked at her daughter and her eyes became glassy.
The little girl really resembled Rick.
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The Ultimate Umbrella Advisor
"I was walking down a very crowded street.
Woolen coats seemed to be everywhere, elbows
were bumping into each other, eyes were getting
poked with umbrellas. Some umbrellas looked higher than others, but I guess
that was because of the... um..."
"Because of the what?"
The doctor stared at Michael,
excited to be making at least some kind of progress.
This "dream" Michael was talking so blatantly about was the
longest conversation doctor and patient had ever had. Their
sessions together were usually silent, Michael staring off into space and the doctor glancing at the clock. Should he push Michael, demand more, should he just let the minutes tick by? What on earth could he do, how could he get Michael to communicate? The doctor held his breath, hoping for a word about the height of the umbrellas.
"Well... I guess it was because some people were taller than others...
I mean, I thought so at the time, in my dream, you know?"
"I know".
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers interlaced and he took a deep breath.
"The umbrellas were different colors and the sky was so dark... It was a really nice contrast... but... I don't know, I kind of felt like... like..."
"Like...?", the suspense was killing Dr. Swanson.
"Running"
The doctor exhaled long and deeply. Running. What an interesting choice of word.
"Why did you feel like running?"
"It was too bright. All those colors. All of them against a dark sky. I got scared".
"Did the umbrellas communicate anything to you? Anything at all?"
"What do you mean communicate?"
"Communicate as in tell you something, make you feel something."
"Yeah, scared."
"Other than that..."
Michael thought for a moment. His forehead became tense and his eyes looked small and slanted. Doctor Swanson thought he might be putting too much pressure on his patient.
"For a minute I was under the impression I had to choose one."
"How did this make you feel?"
"Overwhelmed. The choice was so difficult. There were so many..."
The doctor nodded. Michael stared at his shoes while his hands clutched the ends of his sweater.
"It felt pretty lonely. There was no one to tell me which umbrella to choose."
"You wanted someone to guide you?"
"Yeah. Someone to tell me no matter what umbrella I chose it would be OK. If I failed, I could always try again..."
Michael stood up and looked at the doctor.
"Someone... Anyone."
He didn't say good bye as he closed the door.
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White Heat
A hidden place, where Opium
smokers went to seek release. A secret place, where bodies lay in quiet
repose, eyes distant, pupils dilated. Fixed onto nothingness.
"Are you daft? Hold her still. No! Gently. Her head!"
"Dear God, will this ever end..."
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Statement for a Muse
It wasn’t so much that she was beautiful. It wasn’t her big brown eyes, or the long lashes that seemed to shroud them in unexplicable mystery. For how can such a radiant, sparkling personality also have had the aura of vulnerability and deep, deep isolation that she had? That in itself, has always been the great mystery of her. At least to me.
Her outward form was simple; always smiling, kind. But I… it was to me she told her greatest secrets, her fears, her resented solitude, her pain.
I knew the depths of her hurt and the peaks of her genius.
And I could never understand how such simplicity and such complexity could find its abode in one human being.
No. She was anything but simple.
I never put pressure on again. Happy she would have me around was all I could muster.