Revelations of a Different Time: A 25th Century Perspective on the 21st
My name is Alfred Tinker, and I live in a world without stars. I don’t know where it is you are reading this from, but here, the nights are pitch, and the days at their most radiant are bleak and dim. The moon has long ago drifted out of sight, so there are no tides. The oceans are a stagnant sludge-filled wasteland where none dare swim; not even primordial bacteria, once dubbed the only creatures with the constitution to withstand Earth’s most extreme conditions. Whether on the surface, or miles deep, the liquid that now separates the continents was as lifeless as the center of the sun.
When I was young, I heard stories of a time when the night contained more of these “stars.” Distant suns, they said, twinkling like chopped tinsel, sprinkled on a blackened sheet. I listened to these stories of days when people would squint, not to see through choking smog, but to shield their eyes from the blinding light of our own sun. The only star now left, whipping our planet around, like a ward of unwanted gum.
As a child these stories frightened me. They fell heavy on my fragile shoulders. Memories of a forgotten time. A time which I did not, and cared not to visit.
Years passed like they always do, and time kidnaped our lives and ran, so much faster than we could follow. And now, at an age where even the memory of stories once spoke are but a speck of dust in the abandoned mansion of my mind, I want to return. I am urged by some unrecognizable force to recollect, and redistribute what has been forgotten under the starless spell this planet has succumbed to.
A child walks by my first floor window. He crosses a cracked street, with weeded sidewalks and trembling gravelstones the size of fists. Skull-sized rocks litter the street, bored and unmoving until the broken ground opens and pulls them further down. With each seemingly purposeless step the child takes I am reminded of myself, walking like a beaten dog, pretending my head was it’s tail, stuffed between my legs. I am reminded and left wondering why now it is so different, and again my mind turns to the graveyard of stars stretched above me. I am only allowed a moment though, as the child reaches the other side of the fragmented pavement, and knocks on the door of a saddened brick house. In the corner of spiderglass windows, rusty tears puddle and drip slow-sliding stains of crimson and brass upon its once milky cement foundation.
The child cranes his neck to each side for a moment, and I can almost smell the nervous film that emanates from him; a stink cloud of trepidation. The door moves slightly, and the haunting of what can only be the mother glances down for a moment, before the door slams shut.
1. Unbolt. 2.. Unlatch. 3... Unlock.
The door swings inward. The mother is no longer there, as fearful of her children as she is of the world they’re all dying in.
Removing myself from this peepshow I traffic my creaking body to the kitchen. My kitchen is probably just like yours. It sits near the back of the house and is connected to a dining counter so that I can eat. I wonder though, how many people can you fit in it. I can squeeze myself in, but that’s about it. My kitchen has plenty of amenities as well. An icebox where I keep all my edible material, a personal counter, and a cupboard that holds my dinnerware: one large plate, one small place, one large bowl, one small bowl, a knife, spork, and a corkscrew. The corkscrew being the most essential piece of the entire ensemble of dinnerware, as it allows me to wine alone whenever I get a hankering. Oh, yes, I have a microwave as well; it’s fairly new technology, so I’ll explain as best as I can. You put your edible material in it, and press a button on it’s face, and after a few moments, the food comes out hot. Well... At least warm, it all depends on what model you own. And that’s it. I’m sure yours is quite similar, Common Law dictates that all dining and kitchen sets be equal in parts in order to keep everyone in check, and content.
My dining room is a bit sparse in comparison to all the wonderful tools in the kitchen; it’s really just a space where I can eat. Now, this Law did afford me a great opportunity when I moved into this house, because the former occupant weighed a hefty 195 pounds, making the dining room quite large by today’s standards. I’m just glad it wasn’t the other way around. I knew a guy from work, who bought a house from a woman who only weighed 25 pounds. I mean, we all know, “Thinner is the Winner” as the Democracy says, but it must have been difficult for him to lose enough weight in order to sit in the dining room and eat his meals. Come to think about it, I can’t recall actually seeing him after I heard of his purchase, and since the Democracy only does tell us that if you can’t eat in your dining room, you can’t eat at all. Maybe he got transferred. Regardless of his present situation, it’s lunch time for me.
I stagger to my ice box. With barely enough strength to pull the door, I manage to hack up some semblance of a sandwich. I carry out the sacred process of shaking out a few bits of frozen BBQ sauce onto the frosted meat. Surprisingly enough, I manage to finish the task just before I collapse into the rickety iron chair. My rigid chin barely peeks over the plateau. I take out my dinnerware, and just like Common Law dictates, all dinnerware is made from a highly durable Kevlar/rubber/worm-silk compound that’s bulletproof, shatterproof, rustproof, and antibacterial as well. I eat the sandwich with diligence. My false teeth, crunch and crack upon the frozen slabs of meat, mixing with the sound of my saliva-slick gums, and harsh gulping swallows to create a continuous chorus of digestion. This ugly, but necessary song continues until the plate is cleaned of any digestible remnants.
I place my dinnerware into the sink, and enter the family room. The family room contains the VST (Visually Stimulating Transmitter) and a carpet so hard that my feet can barely feel it. Now, when I was young my parents and I would sit around the VST for hours, not talking, or eating, just sitting and accomplishing some real learning. I viewed government sanctioned programs that were restricted by parental controls, an publicly sanctioned programs further controlled by the government, that were further restricted by parental controls. That may seem like a lot of intense programming to you, but some people could only afford to rent their VST’s from the Democracy for Holi-Day, so their families could enjoy the morning VST’s Holi-Day extravaganza. All Holi-Day morning, those with a VST could enjoy a great green 2D tree that was wonderfully decorated with white speckles. A jolly-looking fat man, with a bare chest, floral shorts and sunglasses rode atop a tank around the tree’s trunk. Every Holi-Day, I would wake as early as possible to view this emotionally charged picture carousel around.
I enter the room now for a different reason though; I realize that it is time to actually receive my Holi-Day presents from the past 70 years that I have been working.
I’m not sure how long you’ve been working, or even living for that matter, but let me assure you, 70 years is a long time to be doing anything, let along working; especially when this works isn’t separated by consistent periods of honest sleep. Not comnpany-sanctioned-drug-induced naps. These do not count. These “naps.” accurately described, are the optical equivalent to a rowdy group of hooligans gang-banging your eyelids until they close, and just when you think the mercy of shock and unconsciousness will overtake you, they bang the lids down too far, like blinds, and let them slingshot towards the back of your eye-sockets where they twirl around the top of your skull. Once this lovely little process is completed, you’re not only wide awake, but your eyes resemble red-lightning streaked globes embedded in a bruised crated. And you’re still beyond tired, and uglier than before.
Did I tell you I was retired? Must have slipped my mind, it slipped mine for a minute as well. I retired last week and spent the time between then and our introduction doing just as I pleased. And true, honest, dead-to-the-world-sleep was my pleasure. Obviously, I did some eating as well, but between those two things, well you get the point.
Now, in the Family room, I look up to see the attic latch. I pull it down and climb into the musty darkness. A light flickers into existence as my shoulders reach he attic floor. Just a quick glance assures me that I’ve missed out on some great things up here. The colorful packages all wrapped and stacked neatly from smallest to largest. They were sent here by the ASC (Automated Storage Company.) The ASC was one of many private organizations that emerged from the “I Carry a Gun and Wear Full-Body Kevlar Armor to Work Era.” The ICGWFBKAWE era for short. The ASC though, can get any package delivered, whether to the toughest neighborhood, or to the most remote climate, they will deliver the package without fail, satisfaction guaranteed. They not only deliver in a timely fashion, and to the correct addresses, but they also store any and all packages in a secure location for you to retrieve at will. My will though, was lacking in the present reception category, until I was fully rested... Or in other words, now.
In the attic, I begin tearing at the carefully wrapped gifts, staring in disappointment at most of the tacky junk that my family must have thought was worth something, at some point. Most of the gifts seem trivial at best, most likely re-gifts from a wedding or housewarming party I never attended. I’m sure at some point they had a real message, or maybe the voice inside my head screaming, “We know you won’t get these gifts until the hourglass no longer holds us responsible.” is the actual message sent with these useless gifts.
I pile a stack of faux-wool sweaters in a tower that nearly topples as it grows to almost twice my height. I make other categorized piles as well: Useless for Animals Let Along People, I’m Too Old for This, I’m Too Young for This, Foods, Drugs, and Might Be Promising. My only other thought is disappointment, knowing that had I the time, I could have seen the fat man and his tank while opening these... Things.
The last category holds only three unwrapped gifts, mostly hidden under paper blankets and empty cardboard beds. Two of them are just basic household necessities. I hold up a “Welcome” mat. Nice isn’t it? Got to love the Democracy, they know how to make a house really shine. “Good Manners Are They Key To Civilization,” they say, and it’s true. Good manners start at the door, or right outside it apparently. The other necessity in my dwindling pile is a couch, which I neglected to purchase because I was never really home, but now, the couch holds a world of possibilities.
The last gift really does seem special. The packaging shows a gargantuan helmet with paper funneling from its peak. Some type of ultra-portable-cellular-fax-machine-hat. This type of unit would minimize any type of inconvenience conventional faxing modules would create, but upon closer inspection, the crafty lettering printed on the gleaming box has not the word fax or satellite on it at all. The flashy bombardment of letters reads “The Thought Author®.”
A note is stuck beneath those words on a tattered yellow sheet of children’s learning paper. It reads: deer granpa. I luv wen yoo tel Me storees. This lookt perfikt for yoo. Yoo alwas forgit stuf yoo old fart. Yoose this. So yoo not forgit no Mor. Luv toMMy
I have to bite back the moisture that is welling up in my eyes, but I do, just for you. I grab the “The Thought Author®” and my new couch and proceed down the ladder and back into the Family room.
After setting up my couch to best view my VS, I take a seat with “The Thought Author®.” Contemplations begin settling as I tumble the box between my two open palms. My thumbs push the container like a jerking ferris-wheel, mere inches from my chin. “The Thought Author®” turns and turns until my breath is too itchy for my throat and I sneeze hard enough to glimpse my most inner thoughts drift out in front of me. A cloud of mental nasal spray creates an almost palpable movie directing my hands to pop the tab on this cardboard altar and retrieve my holy prize.
As the box portrayed, the object inside bears a close resemblance to a fax-machine bread with a satellite-hat. The packaging is a simple styrofoam job that offers the gadget within premium protection at the lowest cost and grievance to both the manufacturer and the consumer. Seconds later, the top popped, and “The Thought Author®” is resting neat as a napkin beneath my upturned palms. An electronic body of Christ, to be worn instead of eaten.
The numerous and splendid looking buttons stare at me, as I place the machine upon my bony knees. I search through the cardboard reinforced walls in order to retrieve the paperback bible that will hopefully cause the buttons, or eyes to open, ignite, and help me immaculately conceive my storybook fetus. My yet unborn proverbial child.
The instructions seem quite simple. They’re color-coded, and numbered. Branded in brail, but not without an audio accompaniment. Each wire is scratch’n’sniff sensitive, and coated in electrical flavoring. The text is written in over thirty-seven different languages including: Pig-Latin, double-ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, binary, and the light, frothy, and politically acute language of Internal Megalopolis Boulevard Colloquialism.
Simple English is all I am fingering for, and the table of contents points me to pages: 23-27, 58-69, and 342-348 for “Quick and Painless Instructions and Safety Precautions for The Thought Author®” along with page 777 to pen any note I may have while being instructed.
My blurring over the manual, it becomes quite clear how to operate the machine. Two wires dangle from either side, connected to a strip of cable, clearly portraying which side of the brain the diodes at the end are to be attached. A comfortable looking pillow clings neatly onto the chin strap below the device to ensure maximum comfort while it is operating.
My visions goes black, and my mind cuts a mouthful of doubt and fear straight into my brain. The game of “What if?” beings to play between my ears, and being the host makes it mighty hard to stop once it starts.
“We’ve got an exciting show for you all tonight.” I, the Host bellows through my/his microphone.
Dressed neatly in a three-piece black suit and Ancient Sea Blue tie, I look fifty years younger inside my own head. Across a stage of brilliant gold and crimson, I gaze at my opponents. I stand on the plains of the dead, and stare out towards the giant sphere before me, and I begin to address the misty attendants.
It’s me versus the world today, in a showdown that...”
And before I even finish, the foggy shapes begin to speak. Whispers first, but then crescendoing into a storm of questions which not sheltering tree, or rubber stick can save me from. Everyone I’ve ever known, ever loved, or spoken to pass through my vision. Their wide translucent eyes bore into my heart, and their wide gaping mouths scream a question before a different transparent face replaces it with another untried riddle.
“What if you break it?” grumbles my mechanic, Michael.
“What if it attracts an unruly gang of youths who thrive on electrical currents and they come to your house and kill you?” asks my mother, Mary.
“What if no one cares about your crazy fucking stories?” screams my brother, Lux.
“What if. What if.. What if..” My first girlfriend, and first love; my first and second, late and early wives, all pepper me, along with every family member. Each co-worker and colleague I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet. Ever child on all my teams that never won. Any and all who ever doubted me or my purpose swing questions like quarter rolls clenched in solid fists, connecting with my brain. A violent coax to give up and cave in; to smash this “toy” and kill the unborn children growing in the womb of my mind, staving off any chance for there to be true life again. “What if. What if.. What if...”
The questions become a groan that stretches time past its normal capacity, and in a panicked haste I hear myself.
“What if I’ve already forgotten?” The face I’ve known since my first mirror enters my scope. It’s a flesh mirage that shimmers, shines, then disappears. My eyes bite at tears that have already been crushed down my cheeks. Drops forced to flow by vice-grip lids that failed to dam them, and only succeeded in accelerating their last descent.
Mind and eyes; cleansed and clear, I notice the weight that was resting on my lap has been respectively displaced, and is now attached to the top of my bald head.
No deep breath. No warning. Just a thought. A single answer to justify this quest. This journey that has been wandering lost for far too long.
“If I’ve already forgotten... Then I’m already dead.”
I’m Sorry. We Are Having Technical Difficulties With Your Host. Please Enjoy This Third-Person Perspective Until A Solution Is Found
-The Democratic Union of the Future Perspective Initiative
An old man is lying on a couch, face up. “The Thought Author®” is planted on his head. The buttons explode with the light of a thousand carnivals igniting machine-gun quick. Each diode sends an electrically charged chemical packet into the old man’s sedated brain. The paper roll whirs from the top of the mechanism and through a happy family of greased cogs. This family funnels the paper onto their neighbors, the typing mechanism. The teeth of the typing unit, prepare themselves for a delicious tree-t, though as Common Law dictates: no materials, for any purpose, can me made from trees or any type of “wood” substance, due to the alarming rate at which the world’s population declined after having them all removed. The “paper” is just a complex blend of highly processed dust particles.
As the paper whirs, the India-ink stained teeth gnaw and chew, each individual tooth pounding its signature with the force and precision of a hammer in the hands of a seasons carpenter. No extra swings to make the nails flush, no missed strokes that add or omit unnecessary letters. The kind of perfection only achieves in the first use of any instrument. A perfect only seen before the tool tastes the blackened heart of age and begins to malfunction; so much more fearful of being labeled obsolete than broken.
Just above the man’s head there is a closed, yet clear window. The very last pane is obscured by wide-gaping eyes and a hat covered forehead. The young child’s eyes dilate at a staggering rate. They slide from left to right, trying to assure him that there is no one watching him spy on Mr. Tinker and his new machine.
The trail of paper slows and then stops, yet Mr. Tinker’s eyes remain flicker, but closed. The boy believes he is sleeping now, so he walks back towards his home. He knows well that he will return as soon as he can. He’ll come and ask to play with, or at least bear witness to more of Mr. Tinker’s paper children.
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