Destruction by A.I.

Destruction

Guard vigilantly those deep, warm secret parts of yourself. 

Hope may take over – a barrage of spores dumped into that hidden spot on a wild wind that got out of control.  You won’t remember when it swept your system.  You won’t feel them settle weightless in the dark that you’ve left unattended.  But, I warn you they will sneak in quietly and spring up overnight, wild and rampant.  Hope will spread unchecked through the system with blatant disregard for what came before.  It will create its own landscaping, imposing itself on an otherwise level field. 

And then…. one day … in that deep hidden place that you’d almost forgotten about … you’ll feel a shaking.  At first, it will feel slightly removed from you and you’ll wonder what that sound is.  You’ll curiously start poking around, lazy like, just trying to investigate that rumbling that seems to be getting a little louder and more aggressive.  Suddenly, you’ll realize something is in your secret hiding spot and you’ll rush towards panicked and confused. 

Time will slow and you’re muscles will seize in shock.  Before your very eyes, there will hope, grown wild and untamed, packed tightly into that spot that once belonged only to you.  You won’t even be able to process the extent to which it has overtaken everything and you’ll feel like you’re as if you stepped into a dual reality.  Almost simultaneously, you’ll realize that the wind, the very one that brought in the spores and dumped them unbeknownst to you, has returned with a temper.  This time the playful wind is a brick wall of air that is slamming angrily into every part of your secret spot.  Surprise will be your chains as you watch, helpless to stop the destruction occurring frighteningly fast before your very eyes.

When the solid wind leaves, you will experience time suspended.  Soundless.  Wordless.  Groundless. 

You’ll blink.

Then time will speed up rapidly, trying to catch up and cover the ground it just lost.  Broken pieces of hope will crash to the ground.  The destruction suspended all around you in disbelief will be hurled downwards and drive itself in to the ground of your favorite secret spot.  There will be gashes in the soil, mars that were not there before.  You will wonder if you will ever be able to repair the damage. 

Guard vigilantly those deep, warm secret parts of yourself. 

Shrooms

Ekan and Morous stared in silent disbelief at the devastation that lay before them. They had traveled far to this place, but could not yet fathom the depth of the grief that was sure to come. They were numb, confused and scared.

They had journeyed from their birthplace, Portobello, accompanied by others of their kind. They had been judged strong young Shrooms by the council and deemed worthy of the honor that their mission carried. Their clan was shrinking, robbed of many of their young by giant marauders. So, like orphans, they were cast to the four winds to eek out an existence, armed only with their wits and what meager support they could scavenge for themselves on the way to their destination – the Shroom colony at Shitake. Their mission was to bring back volunteers to with new spores to re-invigorate their own colony, and cross breed with the Shitakes and create a new, more resilient Shroom race.

Ekan went first down the sloping hill toward the field scattered with fallen Shitakes. He had soon risen to be the commander of this mission. He was a natural leader, and inspired confidence in those around him. Morous had become his second in command – resourceful and trustworthy in even the most difficult tasks. They checked each of the fallen Shrooms, and called for medical assistance for the few survivors. They were able to question a few, who mumbled incoherently about a giant machine that descended out of nowhere and cut them down where they stood. Only a few sheltered in the nooks between boulders had survived uninjured.

Instinctively, Ekan knew that this was a new and dangerous enemy they were facing. Before, the marauding giant carnivores would stoop down and pick tender youngsters, carrying carry them away to feed other giants. But many would survive – in fact – their large numbers ensured some would always survive. But the stories of this new enemy were horrifying. This enemy was indiscriminate in its destruction. Accompanied by a deafening roar, a massive device would swoop down and chop away everything in its path, casting them about like trees in a tornado. Silence would soon follow as the roar moved away, and the survivors would crawl out from the few hiding places, weeping and moaning for their fallen family and friends.

Morous walked over to his friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. He fixed his gaze on Ekan, and watched as the deep sadness in his eyes faded and was replaced by determination. He had grown much on this journey, and realized that the old ways were changing. It would take more than one or two species blending together to create one stronger one. It would take much more.

Ekan looked back once more at the fallen, scattered Shrooms. He turned to Morous, and said “This is bigger than us. It’s bigger than all the Shrooms in all the fields of the world. We need to call together the Ancient Council of Fungi. We need to take the battle to these giants”.

Ekan strode off, followed by Morous and the straggling band of survivors. And so the battle begins………………

Second Place by A.I.

He was falling in love with someone else.

Suddenly heaviness crushed her, weight pushing her down into the wooden stool while her feet lost their sense of gravity and floated aimlessly trying to grasp a sense of the ground. Her head started to pull away from her shoulders, winning the race as all her appendages started trying to escape from her body. Her vision pulled back in sudden retreat from the world around her. Her skin bloated up, pushing away from her and leaving her floating in nothingness.

She shuffled her food around her plate and took in the sight slight confusion. What was she eating again – had she tasted it before? When had she ordered this?

Her stomach rose up trying to replace her lungs and she raised to a razor back position in an attempt to make room in her chest for all of the vital organs that felt lodged there. She tried swallowing several times to encourage everything to sink back into it's normal position but had no luck.

He shifted beside her and she should feel the vacancy in his eyes as he swirled his beer on the bar, waiting for her response. She wasn't sure if he had continued to talk or not. Her ears seemed to have shut down in shock, unwilling to be available for any further news.

Automation took over and she pushed a chip to her mouth and chewed. Apparently her throat still worked and the food squeezed past a lump that took up most of the space in her esophagus. She hoped the bar food would take the uncomfortable intrusion with it.

All her senses conspired by wrapping her in a cocoon of nothingness, allowing no other input in until she had dealt with this new reality. The seconds she hung in that void were lifetimes but when she emerged she felt whole again. Her mind rebooted and she shuddered awake.

Her skin returned to it's normal position, resting comfortably against her muscles and bones once more. She felt the heat of him next to her and the solid comfort he always represent appeared unchanged. Her back lost some of the numbing tightness and she smiled a tad.

He was falling in love with someone else.

Her hand relaxed on her glass and she sipped thoughtfully, back in control of her body. Love seemed fitting and right for him. As she assimilated this information, her mind formed a mental picture of everything she knew about him. She saw him in oranges and yellows – parts of him were calm blues and greens. Now he was adding a swirling ribbon of red that wrapped around him and slid into vacancies that soaked up the new color with eagerness. The new color looked against his skin.

His voice rolled his thoughts out for her and she settled into the familiar cadence, listening between the words for tones that spoke of his excitement and fear. His giddy hesitancy came through clearly and she felt her body grin.

He wore the same presence, expanded with new thoughts but constantly himself. She watched him in the mirror behind the bar, feeling his emotions slip around inside him. Her heart settled, heavy with contented knowledge that her spot next to him at the bar would remain unshakeable. This new love would not cloud the clear window between them; they would remain deep within the souls of each other as they always had. Souls that would always settle against each other seamlessly. Souls that had found home and needed nothing more than the feel of communion to recharge each other for the next battle.

Where Do We Go From Here ? by Looking For Happy

    Bryan sat staring mindlessly into the mirror behind the bar. His fingers were wrapped around either side of his beer bottle, kneading and peeling the condensation soaked label one shred at a time. The pieces fell from his fingers as he worked, piling piece upon piece over the bar napkin he had previously deconstructed. His mind wandered as a gust of hot humid air rushed into the bar behind a sweat soaked construction worker, face still caked with dirt, smelling like he needed a shower more than a beer. God, he said, it’s too fucking hot to work, and plopped down onto a stool.
    The noise shook Bryan out of his listlessness, and he glanced sideways at Jill, who was staring into her drink as she fussed with bending a drink stirrer into shapes that resembled nothing. They sat there, staring, thinking, wishing. Needing to talk, knowing it was the only thing that might save...them. Bryan felt a tear pooling in his left eye, away from Jill. It broke free, and followed a zig-zag pattern down his cheek, funneling through the lines and whiskers until it mingled with sweat, dispersed and evaporated. He wondered, how did we get here ?
    Bryan and Jill had discovered each other online, and after exchanging a few pleasant and flirty emails, met for drinks. They hit it off right away, making each other laugh easily, having a few too many drinks, and laughing some more. Exchanging the abridged versions of their life stories, they immediately felt comfortable. Before they knew it, their quick drink was into it’s sixth hour, and both thought it was time to leave. They went out to Bryan’s car, and kissed somewhat nervously, agreed that it was very enjoyable, and said at the same time “we have to do this again”.
    They did, and the date ended at Jill’s place, where they struggled out of clothes, mouths sealed against each other, hands fumbling with clasps and belts and zippers until nothing but tingling skin remained. Sated, they rested, legs entangled, and laughed about the wild times they had, and had again.
It became a familiar pattern, and each time seemed more intense than the last. They really had fun together, and the times were light and breezy. They went away to the beach for a weekend, and joked about the “L” word. But soon, the word crept into the nightly telephone goodbyes, silly love ya’s at first, as with the emails. Then the first one whispered, as he was buried in her and they stared into each others eyes – I love you she said, and he repeated the words.
    And things changed. Simple words became perceived slights. The I’m sorries became more frequent. Bryan liked some planning and some spontaneity but Jill, but Jill was a free spirit who believed no plans meant no disappointments. Cracks slowly appeared in the bond they shared. Here they now sat, each with a different idea of what love meant to them.
    Bryan turned things over in his mind. He genuinely cared for her, and loved her on some level. I know we can make things work, he thought – but wasn’t sure he wanted to. He learned during his hard journey out of a long marriage that secrets kill relationships, something he had been far too guilty of. And that suppressing issues never helped either party. He looked again at Jill, and wondered what she was thinking as she took a long drink from her glass. Where do we go from here he asked himself.
    Bryan turned and looked into the mirror again, stared into his own eyes, and he realized he was looking at the person he needed to love first. He needed to meet his own expectations, and no one else's. He put thirty dollars on the bar, got up and walked out. He never looked back.

Here I Am....Turn the Page

Life is very much like a book. Opening the front cover of that book represents birth. The following pages are the adventures and nuances of a life yet to be lived. Turning the last page, and closing the book’s back cover are a metaphor for the end of life. This is powerful symbolism; an image that is clear to everyone and repeated often in poems, songs, movies, and yes, in books.

And yet, this vivid imagery is limited by it’s very nature. When you pick up a book, it is a finite thing – the content of the book is fixed and scribed onto the pages between the covers. The story therein is constrained by the size of the type, spacing of characters, and dimension of each page. The narrative is limited to the space between the covers, which is always just enough.

Life just isn’t like that. When we open our books for the first time, the pages are all blank. We can’t even write the first few chapters ourselves; we need to give co-authoring credits to our parents and family. As we age and mature, we start to take over the direction of the story, either by our action or inaction, though usually with a liberal sprinkling of both.

If we approach life with a sense of wonder and adventure, we excitedly anticipate what the next page of the story might bring. A life of drifting and inaction tends to make one dread the next page. Going back and re-reading a few previous chapters is always a good idea, to re-celebrate joys, or review poor choices and make some editorial changes for future chapters.

As our lives wind down, and our bodies start to break down, the reader may start to realize the incredible circle that life becomes. We finish our books with a few chapters that again require co-authoring. Perhaps because the writer has become too frail. Or perhaps because there needs to be an unbiased post script commentary on the quality of that life.

The only thing certain is that the book of ones life is never closed. The back cover meets the front cover; we end where we started. From nothing to nothing. And whether you believe in an afterlife, or simply that our bodies decay and we become the source of nutrients for a new form of life, we start again at the beginning, and the circular book of life goes on.

Paused by A.I.

Her life lay suspended.  She collapsed face down into the bed and tried to breath.  Everything seemed to be rocking around her and life had no foothold anymore.  Her past was on one side of her spine and her future’s pages had yet to be turned; so, she lay, face down and waited for things to be righted.

The longer she lay, the harder it was to get up.  The muscles she thought were there seemed to have vanished, leaving her nothing to push up from the ground with.  Besides, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to turn over – what would she find in this new story that had suddenly become her own.  She couldn’t picture what that new world would look like.  Exhausted, she gave herself up to gravity and just lay there.

But the world stops turning for no one.  Rain came, the sun shone and the heat breathed life back into her life.  Subtly, muscles began to return while the wind whispered ideas in her ears and ruffled her hair.  She began to shift a little, moving here and there – testing new areas of movement.  

One day, her eyes cleared and found herself eager to taste life fully again.  She went to push herself upwards and discovered she had changed.  She was no longer the story she was before.  Over time, she had changed into a starburst that was already meeting the world with a brilliance that would only get better over time.

WISPS by Aggressively Inquisitive

We are moving so quickly, busily, our souls blur, becoming sheer and insubstantial even to ourselves.  So busy that we can’t remember what solid stillness feels like.   We’re turning to a task before our spirits have released our attention from the task that’s still slipping from our fingers.  We get stretched – becoming spider webs stretched between activities.  Our consciousness lies watchful in the upper corner of our jumbled web, waiting to pounce and consume the tasty parts of our days.  

Days whisk by, our hands barely feeling the hot air brushing over our skin from the moments skittering out of our way.  We become thinner and wanner, almost invisible in our spinning until we hit something that makes us stop.  We reach towards this new thing as if it is just another passing activity.  It suddenly becomes heavy and we’re unable to set it down so quickly.  The dawdling over it allows our stretched parts to shrink back and slowly we become solid again.  Parts stretched out relearn their place in the calm body of ourselves and we remember luxury and indulgence again.  We become fat and juicy as we allow ourselves to linger in the decadence of pure time and focus.  No more sheer curtains of ourselves.  In those moments, we are solid and sure – not a wisp subject to the will of the wind. 

This time we must be pulled away.  We don’t reach eagerly toward the next task; we strain to maintain the hold on what we have right now.  And as we feel the day move forward again, we stretch to keep contact as long as possible.  When the connection snaps, we turn forward once again to our busy lives – but now solid and sure.  We are calmer knowing we can return; knowing there is a place where our souls can catch up and we can be still. 

We move off, quickly, leaving the beginnings of the trail of ourselves. 

When a Door Opens...

Peter stood silently in stunned disbelief as he stared at the travelers scurrying past him. His analytical mind, education and research in physics and relativity allowed him to maintain a calm exterior. He did go unnoticed, but nervous perspiration beaded on his forehead and ran down his neck, darkening the button down collar of his blue oxford shirt.

He wanted to smile, to break out in a wide grin and shout out about his discovery. Peter restrained himself, partially because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself and be thought a fool. As seconds past, his mind raced with the implications this knowledge would have on of the lives of everyone on our planet, and the possible sinister uses of his now-proven theory.

Peter Brockman was a precocious and gifted child with a thirst for knowledge and an imagination unbounded by reality. He graduated high school at 12, MIT with a Masters Degree in Physics at 16 and had two PhD’s by 21. He was the golden boy of science, and could have named his price with any of a hundred international companies, but those price tags came with limitations on the direction of his research. He chose instead a small privately, but extravagantly funded research institute that was interested in supporting his research.

Many great scientists, even Einstein, had theorized about what he had now proven. They had great minds, but not the unbounded imagination that drove Peter. That imagination had allowed him to look beyond the limitations of current scientific knowledge. That imagination had always steered him towards the positive ramifications of his theories. But now, in a few horrifying seconds, his mind saw something else.

When you are an elite student, attend the most exclusive and challenging schools, and are bombarded with attention, you live a sheltered life. The ugly realities of the world are filtered. Greed, poverty and evil are at best distant concepts. Suddenly, these negative realities came flooding in and overwhelmed his consciousness.

The glasses he wore were connected to Blackberry-sized nuclear power source, which in and of itself was a scientific breakthrough. That power energized nano-particles embedded in the glasses which bent the virtual interwoven fabric of light, time and space that surrounds all of us, all of the time.

You see, Peter had opened a window. A window that offered a view into a parallel universe. A universe full of people, places and things that existed in the same space as our own people, places and things, only in a different dimension. Peter watched as ghost-like people from the other universe walked through the people and things of his universe. These people seemed to be wheeling luggage and standing at kiosks. Just like those around him.

His mind raced as he realized that if a window could be opened, so could a door. Did there exist another copy of us on the other side? What would happen if he passed through that door and met his counterpart? What if people and things were the same, but there were diseases or some unspeakable evils that crossed from one side to another? What would happen if his discovery fell into the wrong hands, and terrorists or megalomaniacs were able to marshal the forces of the other side?


Several weeks later, a plane slowly banked over coast of New Jersey. It was a routine Homeland Security flyover of cargo ships just off the coast and in New York Harbor. The plane contained extremely sensitive radioactivity detectors – to defend against a nuclear device being smuggled into the country by terrorists.

Air Force Sgt. Devin Johnson was startled by the equipment’s warning buzzer; another false alarm he thought. He contacted the plane’s Captain, who called in the Coast Guard to investigate. What they found was a small unoccupied motor boat, belonging to a Peter Brockman. There was only a small trace of radioactivity on the boat, but their instruments were picking up strong signals from somewhere in the nearby waters. Divers were called in.

FBI agents raided Peter’s home and research lab. They found evidence of destroyed files, blank computer drives, and a hastily written note that simply said a few goodbyes, I’m sorries, and a sentence that said simply, “I have to lock this door forever”.

Later that day, divers found Peter beneath 500 feet of water under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, chained to a concrete-filled large container. His body was highly radioactive. The divers also found the remains of what appeared to be a melted cell phone. The glasses were never found.

A Different Look At That Old Swing

    Jackson swore she could feel the heat physically wrapping around the back of her neck.  The dirt was always packed harder into the cracks on the porch on days like this.  Above her head the tin roof pinged as the heat changed it’s shape; Jackson dragged her bare toe on the ground as the swing retreated and she took a drag off the cigarette that was in her left hand.  At the top of the swing, she exhaled quietly and then gravity moved her forward into the cloud. 

    “It’s so hot even the smoke is too lazy to move,” she thought as the swing began to travel backwards once again, once again her toe dragged along behind it.

This time, when the time wasn’t given away by the sun, were special for Jackson.  She loved to indulge herself in the light that seemed neither morning nor night.  It was that quiet light that seemed to suspend time and release the importance of things.

    Jackson looked over at the empty space beside her.  She always kept to the right side of the swing though there was no one that would join her.  Never had been anyone on this porch helping her keep the rhythm of the swing going; yet, she always had sat as if there someone would walk out into the heat any minute. 

Is that what she wanted?  Her head tilted for a second and her posture stilled, the rocking less evident in her torso now.  Did she want someone to weight down the other side of the swing for her?

    There was no denying that the weight would help even out the awkward gait of the swing, one side struggling to keep up with the faster heavier side.  But, there would be other advantages.  Tossing thoughts out through the thick air knowing they’d be caught had a certain appeal to her.  And Jackson supposed that with someone else tossing ideas back at her, she might not have to come up with new thoughts all on her own.  Plus this time of day was perfect for a deeper voice murmuring next to her.  She was sure she wouldn’t mind the pressure of the heat if it was accompanied by the brush of a voice.   Quiet companionship was what she saved that seat for.

    But quiet solitude fed her every night.  If the seat next to her was filled, she’d never be sure that nothing would intrude on her thought pattern.  Jackson knew that she wouldn’t have to think in English or in complete sentences if no one was there to suddenly ask for a summary of her thoughts.  As it was now, she could let herself get distracted by the smallest things and not worry that she wasn’t giving her undivided attention to someone muttering next to her.   Perhaps it was too hot for conversation; perhaps the brain should be allowed to be lazy on these hot nights when not even smoke wanted to rise. 

    Jackson became aware of a slow moving car passing the porch.  She lifted her hand quietly and nodded to the driver.  She pushed her foot against the floor to give the swing a little speed and height.  Taking another drag, she blew the smoke up towards the rafters over head and took in the rough look of the wood.  She loved looking at wood, the grain in it seemed warm and alive to her.

    It appeared her debate would not be solved tonight.

Mose and Louise

    I remember Mose and Louise Robinson sitting on that porch swing many a summer night. They lived in that house for over fifty years, raising six children in the process. They've all been gone for years now. But once or twice a year they used to come back and crowd that little house, with a gaggle of their own kids in tow. And Mose and Louise were never happier.
    Hard work and heredity finally caught up with Mose, and he died quietly in his sleep one night, with Louise there by his side. Try as they might - her children couldn't convince her to move in with one of them. She'd always say "I spent the happiest years of my life here with your Daddy, and this is where I'll spend the rest of it". But without her Mose, she just ran out of will and reason, and one night, she just slipped away from us all to be back with him.
    Pretty soon some developer will be putting up expensive condos with a view of the sound, and this old, rickety, weed-choked home of my dear friends will be gone. But never will the memories of Mose and Louise, sitting there on a hot summer night, with the radio pumping big-band music through the window screen as they sway back and forth on that old swing. Their heads will be tilted slightly back and towards each other, sweat dripping down their necks and cold drink glasses in unison, as their soft smiles caress each other.
    See you again soon my old friends.