December | 2016 | In This Future Or The Next

Month – December 2016


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.

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Something’s Different

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.

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