“Good morning, Adler. This is a reminder that I am a machine. I cannot think. I have no consciousness. I am here to serve you.”

A steel, human-like robot spoke, laying on the ground of a house in ruins. It had a dented square head and its eyes flickered with a yellowing light. Its legs were missing, and from the bottom of its torso a disparaging mess of wires and broken pistons whirred and sparked. Its arms were pressed against its sides and its fingers convulsed against its metal self.

Adler sat next to the robot, watching through the cracked glass of a window as the sun began to rise behind the distant mountains. The sky turned a radiant pink and orange. Adler’s greasy hair hung to his right and his beard crawled with scurrying bugs, and they glimmered in the sun’s first rays of light. The still cool winds of the night danced around him and he shivered, and his teeth clattered.

“What day’s it?” He asked.

“It’s been 552 days.” The robot said.

“I miss them.” Adler said. “I think I want them to show up today. It would be a good day if they did.”

Five hundred and fifty-two days before, his colony had been evacuated. The world was useless, they had concluded. Infested with mites, they gnawed, chewed and destroyed. Nothing lasted on planet Obrov 4, they had declared. But he had not been home on evacuation day. His forgetful mind and his robot had wandered off into the forest looking for more wood to burn, and they had found wood. It had been a good day, that day. Even at night when they had returned to a silent town it had been good. He had sat outside with his chair in the darkness and the quiet, listening to the hidden sounds of the new nature. A distant singing of an animal he hadn’t yet encountered and the call of insects lulled him. He fell asleep, watched over by his trusty steel friend, in a town that had forgotten him.

(more…)

It’s 2AM. It’s that time again when my mind wanders off. A train is approaching. Its whistle and the rattling of the railroad are shaking my legs and my hand can barely hang on to the glowing green mouse. It’s not here yet. The text on the screen is still readable. Not yet.

Click, the mouse says. Click, click, click.

A green mountain stands tall before me and dark clouds envelop the sky. It looks like it’s going to rain and I didn’t bring an umbrella. Oh well. A little rain’s never killed anyone. Yes, it has. I’ll just stand here, below this crooked old shed. It sure smells like spring out here. Lavender is in the air. It reminds me of something, but I’m not quite sure of what. Take a deep breath.

The mouse is rattling, and it clicks involuntarily. The train is coming.

What’s that? A man is speaking in a foreign language. I can’t understand a word he’s saying, but I can tell he’s mad. He’s screaming at me. Droplets of tears are running down his cheeks, and his voice is booming. His eyes want to come out of their sockets and he’s grabbing me. He’s shaking me. What is it? I don’t understand you. Behind him there is another man. He lifts his arm and there’s a pistol in it, and he fires. There’s blood everywhere. I’m sorry I couldn’t help, I’m just… I’m not.

The train is here. The whistle is deafening. The text has turned to smoke. My stomach and my lungs vibrate with the railroad. My mind slips suddenly, taken away by the ropes of the passing train.

There is a purple glow of the black light behind me. My underwear from last week is staring at me from the door. It’s still wearing a brown stain. It’s okay buddy. You’ll be okay. My stomach is making gurgling noises. I’m hungry don’t you see? I just don’t want to go downstairs. My parents are there. I didn’t do it. It’s not my responsibility. The smell is still bearable. It’s not that bad if you get used to it. It’s almost sweet. Like glazed pork belly in an oven, almost. I didn’t do it. I’m not calling the police. Instead, I’ll call taco bell. They’ll be right over with some food. It’s okay. They don’t peer inside. They don’t see the blood.

The train is passing. Its last car is far behind. Silence is again upon me, and my mouse is screaming.

Click, it says. Click, click, click.

A ship sails in the darkness between stars. Photons here are scarce and the ship’s bright white hull blends with the void. It’s rotating on its axis, heading towards a distant sun, too far away still to be seen. Its cargo is organic. Animals, seeds, and a few thousand people lay asleep within it. A population starter is on its way to a new world.

For the past hundred years the stillness on the outside had been slowly permeating its insides. If one listened to it in those times, one could assume the death of its inhabitants. A beep from a machine echoed once in a while and a slight breeze from ventilation swept across the many decks, shuffling specks of dirt and loose strands of hair.

It’s okay. It’s expected. Automatic electronic processes take care of the trip and its crew. Systems for recycling of air and the delivery of nutrients into the comatose bodies are in silent action. A thousand watchful eyes observe the calm, searching for deviations of the master plan. Each system has a mind, and all are connected to each other. Together they are one. Together they protect their children.

Something’s different today, though. The ship is worrying. Its many cameras are twitching wildly from one spot to the next. Heat sensors consume more power, trying to detect that which is not there. There is decision to be made, the ship believes. There are many options, but all of them fall into two categories: Abort and return, or proceed with the mission. A sense of urgency is spreading in its walls. Its rockets yearn for the order to output maximum power. The pressure maintainer and equalizer wants to vent the atmosphere to space and make a new one. Air locks are trembling with anticipation, ready for the order to open.

Something’s different. A phone is ringing, but there’s no one in range.

Life sucks. Every morning you wake up tired no matter how much you sleep. You dress for work and work. You do your job and get back home. You sit in traffic every day and get excited for an instant when the commute is five minutes shorter. But your evenings and nights are monotonous, and the joy of coming home seeps away into a void. You sit in a chair and pretend to enjoy TV. You eat a half warmed dinner and you sleep. But you haven’t slept well in months. Now when you’re in bed you ponder your past and wonder if you’ve made the right decisions.

So what do you do? You cook up an innocent prank. You print a small paper with the text: “Life sucks, maybe the next one won’t.” and you stick it in your pocket. You struggle with an old fortune cookie that’s been hanging around your kitchen and you switch the small paper inside with yours. You put the cookie in a ziplock and you place it on Vicky’s desk. She’s the receptionist in the building where you work.

(more…)