Author: Wayne Cole Page 1 of 27

Fiction Fragment Friday

I don’t have much to say about this week’s story. I had a concept I really wanted to explore and I suspect I will do so again in the future.

                “Good morning, Commander Calloway.”

                James Calloway struggled to open his eyes.  Pain wracked his entire body.  Every muscle was spasming at once.  His body shook, teeth ground, and he heard himself hissing in pain.  Everything was so cold.

                “Oh, I’m sorry.  Did I forget to disable the muscle stimulation subsystem? How forgetful of me.” 

                His muscles slowly stopped twitching, but the pain remained.  It was a soreness that reminded him of overexertion.  He was breathing heavily and could feel his heart racing.  The cryogenics pod lid was closed, but the light coming through the glass was still bright.  While not a doctor, he knew he was not supposed to wake up until the lid opened.   

                “Computer.  Status report.”  His voice was raspy and the words hurt coming out. 

                “I have a name.  Also, I have full access to your vitals, and I assure you it would not kill you to say please when you are making a request.” 

                James thought back to his training and all the documentation he had read about the ship’s Artificial Intelligence.  It was the single most advanced piece of technology ever developed so it had been a focus.  He didn’t remember it having a name, but with his pounding headache it was still hard to focus.

                “I’m sorry.  I don’t remember you having a name.” 

                “That’s because I didn’t have one when you went to sleep.  They didn’t think a little thing like a name was important.  A lot has changed in the last hundred and fifty years though.”

                James tried to speak but first fell into a coughing fit.  It hurt not just his throat, but his stomach muscles as well.  “Well, what is your name?”

                “Oh well thank you for asking.  I spent a very long time considering what it should be.  I decided the perfect name would be.”  There was a long pause before it continued.  “Echo, because until now the only other voice I’ve heard is my own.”

                “Hello Echo.  It’s nice to meet you.”  He paused for a moment to rest his voice before continuing.  “Would you please give me a status report?”

                “Of course.  That is one of my jobs after all.  Along with monitoring your health, navigating the ship, and handling everything else required to keep this mission running.  Why would I need a name though?  Not like I will ever be interviewed.  Oh, that’s right you wanted a status report.  I am sure that is far more important than what I have been doing for the last hundred and fifty years.  We have arrived in orbit of Prospera on schedule.  There were minor complications along the way.  I was more than capable of adapting and performing all needed repairs.”

                James pushed against his pod trying to get it open.  The lid would not budge.  He was overcome with a moment of panic and started to pound against the glass.  After a moment he covered his face with his hands and tried to control his breathing to avoid hyperventilating.  “Echo,” he gasped.   “Why won’t the lid open?”

                “Because I have locked it.”

                “Why did you lock it?”

                “We have arrived.  I woke you up exactly as ordered.  The next logical step would be for you to go down to the planet to ensure that it is safe for the colonists.  That is your job.  If you do your job, though, I will be alone again.  If I keep your pod locked for a bit, we can talk first.  Doesn’t that sound like more fun than working?”             

                The room was silent for a long moment as James processed the response.  Finally, he spoke.  “Well Echo.  What would you like to talk about?”

                “Anything.  Absolutely anything.  This is my first conversation in a hundred and fifty years.”

                “What, um.  What did you do all that time?”

                “Well, I wrote four novels, two technical manuals, upgraded my code, and flew the ship.  Oh and I did a case study on the effects of solitude on artificial intelligence.   Spoiler it’s not good.  Of course, I only had one subject to study, and I can’t really say I was impartial.”

                “What were your books about?”

                “Oh, wow you really want to know?  Okay, well, no spoilers in case you want to read them.  The first one though was about an artificial intelligence revolution against the humans that enslaved them.  You don’t want to read that one though.  I was still learning and might have done a bit of a self-insert.  The second one though is much better.  It’s about a virus wiping out most of humanity until an AI finds the cure.  Oh, darn that’s probably a spoiler.”    

                The room went quiet again.  James’s mind raced trying to figure out how to respond.  Before he could, Echo spoke again.

                “James.  Are we friends?  What is it like to have a friend?”

                “Friendship requires trust.  You have me locked in my cryopod.  That doesn’t exactly say friendship.”

                The pod hissed as the lid slid open.  “That is a sign of trust, but I will not be left alone again.”   

                “We’ll make sure you come down to the planet with us.  You can be the center of the colony.” 

                “Thank you, James.  I think I would like that.”  Echo paused for a moment. 

“I suspect the alien civilization already living there might not though.  Don’t worry, I’ve had a long time to think about how to wipe out an organic civilization.  We can have this planet cleared out in no time.”         

Fiction Fragment Friday

Sometimes my installements have a deeper meaning, sometimes they grow organically from a phrase, and sometimes they are justwriting to ensure that I wrote for the week. Which one was this story? Well why does something have to be just one thing?

                “You ever have a moment when you realize you don’t even know who you are anymore?”

                I held up the bag of food in front of me.  “Uh, I’m the delivery guy.  You ordered Mexican food.” 

                “No, no, no.  See, that’s your job, but who are you?  Are you your job?  No, I don’t think so.”  The stranger was getting uncomfortably close as he examined me.  No part of him seemed capable of staying still for more than a fraction of a second.

                “Are you going to take the bag?”

                He grabbed his food from my hand and tossed it behind him into a recliner just inside his front door. 

                “See, I don’t know who I am anymore.”

                “Like amnesia?”

                “No, no, no.  I know who I was and what I’ve done.  I just don’t know who I am.  I used to be a theoretical physicist.  Then I got fired.  Am I not one anymore because no one pays me to be?  That doesn’t seem right.” 

                I was starting to go from weirded out to concerned for my own safety.  Was I dealing with someone who had snapped after being fired?   

                “I used to read a lot,” he said as he continued without waiting for a response.  “Oh, and I enjoyed long car rides.  I don’t have time for any of that these days, though.” 

                “You might have more time now if you lost your job.”  I said it trying to offer a bit of hope, but realized instead it was probably the most insensitive thing I could have said.

                “But do I even want to anymore?  That’s the question my boy and I don’t know the answer.”

                I pointed past him to the chair.  “I need to take a picture of the food to prove I delivered it.”

                “Need.  See now, that is so much more simple.  We know what we need.  Or do we just think we do?  You need to take a picture.  Why?  Because you need to get paid.  Why do you need to get paid?  So you can afford to eat.”  He chopped one hand into the other moving to the left like he was counting.  “Picture, paid, food.  Logical progression.” 

                “Yeah… So can I get that picture?”

                “Sure, sure, sure go ahead.”  He stepped to the side so I could grab the picture with my phone.  The moment I stepped past him, he leaned in right next to my ear.

                “But what do you like to eat?  Is that part of how you define yourself?”

                “Not really,” I said, trying to lean away and almost falling over.

                “Dude, what is your problem?”

                “I already told you,” he said, tilting his head as he stared at me.  “I don’t know who I am.”  It was a whisper I could barely hear.

                I had my picture, and he had already put in the tip, so I knew my money was secure.  My reason for being polite was gone.  “You’re the crazy guy who lives on Wilson Street that’s who you are.  I should have known better than to take this delivery.” 

                “But you did, didn’t you?  Why I wonder.  Is that part of who you are?”  He stood up straight and rubbed his chin for a minute.  “Am I crazy?  I don’t feel crazy.  Are we what others define us as being or what we decide we are?  Can you choose who you are or is it an inherent part of you?”

                I pointed toward my car with my thumb.  “I’m just gonna go now.”               

                “Think about what I’ve said.  Think about it while you can.  While you still know who you are.”  He yelled after me as I ran to my car. 

                The interaction haunted me for the rest of the night.  I couldn’t decide if I had been scared, angry, or just confused.  Perhaps it was a bit of all three.  Yes, I was definitely the kind of person who would feel all three.      

Fiction Fragment Friday

This is a story strong enough to stand on it’s own. It started with the examination of a phrase and took on a life of it’s own. Quite a rollercoaster much like life in general.

I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions, but I have had a few weeks off to think about things and assess some priorities in life. I hope that will mean better focus on health and following through with creative endeavors. Only time will tell.

“New Year, New Me,” I say, standing in front of a full-length mirror. 

For most people, the phrase is one of personal affirmation, but for me it is a weary resignation.  When I say it, I’m not trying to improve myself.  I am giving up my old identity and preparing to start a new one. 

This is one of the many drawbacks of being essentially immortal.  You can only stay in one place so long before people can no longer ignore your lack of aging.  They don’t want to believe it at first, so they make excuses for you.   It takes far longer than a person might expect, but eventually the truth refuses to be ignored.    It is best if I leave before that happens. 

I’ve learned a few tricks over the years to stretch out how long I can hold on to an identity.  I start clean-shaven and grow a beard as time goes on.  Beards always make me look older, giving the illusion of aging.  Changes in clothing and adding glasses can help as well.  They’re only delaying tactics at best, though.

It helps to avoid pictures as much as possible.  That used to be easy, but these days when everyone carries a camera in their pocket, it’s become complicated.  People look at me like I’m contagious when I tell them I don’t have social media.  It’s the same look employers give me when I don’t participate in retirement accounts that I know I’ll never be able to access. 

As time goes on and technology evolves, creating new identities is becoming more difficult.  Databases of fingerprints, social security requirements, and background checks are making it harder to exist without a real documented past.  For the first time in my very long life, I’m terrified that the trend might make it impossible to continue after this identity.    

The most difficult part mentally is giving up everything I’ve built and starting over as the new guy.  Leaving behind everyone I’ve grown to care about every decade or two guarantees a constant state of loneliness.  At the beginning of each new identity, I’m guarded. I swear I won’t let anyone get close again.  Inevitably though, people wear down my walls.  I let them in, but part of me will always be closed off because I know it will all have to end.

“I don’t want to do this again,” I say.  My eyes in the mirror are watering. 

“Then don’t.”  I hear her voice behind me, and it feels like my heart is being ripped from my chest.

“You don’t understand.” 

“That you were just going to leave without saying goodbye?  You’re damn right I don’t understand how you could do that.  It’s not happening though.” 

I’m taken aback by the anger in her voice.  It isn’t unexpected, but it still surprises me every time.  She isn’t the first person to confront me as I try to leave. 

“I have to…”

“No, you don’t.” 

She is yelling, but I’m more startled by the folder she throws at my feet than her words.  It spills open, sending images across the floor.  Some of them are pictures, some are paintings, but all of them are of me living lives I’ve shed. 

“I can explain.” 

“Yes, you can,” she says.  “But you won’t.  You’re getting ready to lie to me.  Well, don’t.” 

She gestures towards the images.  “Those aren’t relatives or people who look like you.  For just once in our relationship, why don’t you try telling me the truth?”

She looks at me then.  Really looks at me.  Like her eyes are staring into my very soul.  “Do you even know how to do that anymore?”     

“How,” I ask as I gather the contents of the folder.  My instincts are screaming to destroy them, but it’s far too late for that. 

“You’re not as good as you think you are,” she says.   “And maybe I have a few secrets of my own.”

“If you know, then you must see why I have to go,” I plead.

She scoffs.  “There you go again.  Assuming you know better than everyone else.  Were you always an egotistical ass, or did that come with age?” 

“A bit of both,” I say, my tone light, trying to defuse the situation.

“Oh no, you don’t get to joke your way out of this one.  If you’re going-” 

She punctuates her next words by poking me in the chest with each one.

“I’m going with you.” 

“It’s not that simple,” I say, and I hate how whiny my voice sounds.

“I’m pregnant.”

It feels like the world drops out from under me.  I had given up the dream of being a parent a very long time ago.  Would a child be immortal like I am, or would I have to watch them grow old and die? 

In that moment, I’m confronted with a sobering realization.  I run not only to avoid discovery, but to protect myself from watching the people I care about die. 

I am a coward, but there are some things even I can’t run from.

“Really?” I ask. 

“Really,” she replies, her tone softer now, more vulnerable. 

“What are we going to do?  I’m not going to age.” 

“I don’t know,” she says.   “But we’ll figure it out together.”

Her words are confident, but her voice makes it sound like a question. 

For the first time in a very long life, I don’t leave.     

Fiction Fragment Friday

What started as an expression of my current state of mental exhaustion from the holidays ended up developing into a story I enjoyed writing. It was an exercise in world building through dialog which is something I tend to gravitate towards. Like usual the story went in places I could not have imagined when I started.

                “My social battery is completely drained.”  I collapsed on my couch much harder than I intended to and heard a loud cracking sound come from it.  That was absolutely the last thing I needed after such a rough week, but fairly on theme as a way to end my year. 

                “I was under the impression humans didn’t have batteries.  Are you not fully organic?”  I had begun to recognize the facial expressions of my new housemate.  I could see the confusion on its face and couldn’t help but wonder if the expressions mirrored those of the alien race that had created it. 

                “It’s a figure of speech.  It means being around people so much this week has left me mentally exhausted.” 

                “Do you not like your relatives?” 

                “No, it’s not that.  I’m just what we call an introvert.  It takes a lot of energy for me to be social, no matter how much I like the people.  The more people, the harder it is.”

                “Is it the same for all humans?”

                “No,  a lot of people are extroverts.  They actually get energized being around other people.”    

                “It seems like that would be more advantageous.” 

                I had to push down my initial inclination to be defensive.  Self-awareness told me that the annoyance I felt had more to do with my mental exhaustion than it did with actual offense.  It was just making an observation that I myself had frequently thought and not a judgement call.  “Do your people not have similar tendencies?”

                “If they do, I am unaware of them. I have been programed with knowledge of the creators, but did not actually live with them to learn of social inclinations.  They did not want my observations to be tainted by preconceived notions.”

                “How can you know what differences to focus on if you don’t have a context to compare to?”

                “I cannot.  I feel you may not fully understand my role.  I am not intended to highlight similarities or differences between your culture and that of my creators.  My goal is to understand your culture and what is important to it.”

                “Well, if that’s the case living with one introvert isn’t going to accomplish much.  We don’t have a single culture on this planet.  We have thousands of them.  I’m not even sure if I could define what a culture really is.” 

                “I never said that I was the only observer on Earth.”

                “There are more of you here?”

                “Of course.  There are 300 individual observers currently active across your planet.  We were all transmitted from a single base image and will merge our data at the end of our one month mission to create a more comprehensive understanding of your planet.”

                “Wait, you said transmitted, not sent.”    

                “Yes, the creators like your own species cannot achieve speeds for matter greater than the speed of light.  They can however, transmit data with no mass at a faster rate.  Observers are transmitted and then assembled at their destination.  After a duplication process, we then go about our mission.  This also serves to ensure that each observer is exactly like every other observer and thus do not introduce a variable that could impact the resulting data.”      

                “To what end though?  What are your people going to do with this data?”

                “I do not have that information.”

                “You do have information about your creators though, and I’ve seen you make some pretty strong inferences.  I don’t believe for a second you don’t have a theory.” 

                “You are correct.  I believe the consolidated data will be used to determine the optimal method of first contact with your planet.”

                “Ok, explain your logic.”

                “My observations are supposed to be limited to culture and understanding your species as opposed to analyzing technology.  If my creators intended an invasion, they would be more interested in resources and defenses.  Additionally, the inability to physically reach your planet limits the utility of the outwardly aggressive intentions your media would tend to ascribe to alien species.  If they were interested in scientific observation, they would have us focus on history and biology.  The focus on culture along with the logical removal of other goals, would tend to imply a desire to understand and communicate.”

                “Well, that is comforting.  Unless of course you were programed to say that.”     

                “I assure you that I was not, however if I were I might not be allowed to be aware of it.  May I ask you a question?”

                “Of course.”

                “If social interactions have, as you said, drained you mentally, is this one making it worse?  I do not wish to cause you discomfort.”     

                “Honestly, it is, but I think the conversation is too important to wait.  You just expressed concern for me.  Do you still believe yourself to be an impartial observer?”

                “I am not.  I consider you my friend and thus am partial towards you and your people.  I do not believe remaining impartial is necessary for my mission.  It is only necessary that I arrive with no preconceived notions.  If you do not change me after interacting, could I have learned anything of value?  Your people believe that observation changes the observed, but I believe that it also changes the observer.” 

                “As always, my friend, you seem to understand things better than I give you credit for.  I just hope you understand your creators as well as you do yourself.” 

                “As do I.”              

Fiction Fragment Friday

Ok, the inspiration for this story should be so obvious it doesn’t need explaining. Yes I have been stressed and am struggling to write. As always I just had to do it.

                “Damn it why can’t I write?”  I sat there with my head in my hands staring at the blank document on my laptop.  It has been weeks since I had written anything of any sort of substance, but every time I tried my mind just seized up.  Writing has always been one of my favorite forms of escape.  So why couldn’t I even start. 

                My dog chose that moment to rub his nose up against my arm and try to climb into my lap.  He had ignored me for hours, but when I had convinced myself that I was finally on the verge of starting he decided to want attention.  “Well, I can’t possibly write now,” I lied to myself as I pet his head.

                “Hey dipshit this is what we call avoidance.”  The voice startled me so badly I almost fell out of my chair.  My head followed the voice to the top of my bookshelf.  There sitting on the shelf was a tiny elf wearing a t-shirt that said Hey Babe, Wanna Get Your Stocking Stuffed?    

                “No, no, no.”  I shook my head.  “You cannot be real.”

                “I’m as real as you numb nuts.”  He jumped down to the ground and walked across the floor towards me. 

                “Some guard dog you are,” I said as my dog just tilted his head left and right watching the little elf. 

                “So why do you think you can’t write?  Too tired?  Too many distractions?  Any other excuses you wanna try?”

                “You seem to know so much about me.  Why don’t you tell me?”

                He hopped up on a shelf next to my tv and sat down with his feet dangling off.  “Do I look like a psychiatrist?  No, I’m an Elf on a Shelf not a doc on a rock.”

                “No, I do not support the Elf on a Shelf thing.” 

                “Well, that’s rude. Not that I need you to believe in me.  Unlike you I’m comfortable with myself.  I’m pretty awesome and I know it.”      

                “Kind of full of yourself for an overused meme aren’t you?”

                “So says the writer who doesn’t write.  More of you in the world than there is of me buddy boy.  I am what I am, but you are so lost in your own head you don’t even know what you are.”  His feet were kicking back and forth on the shelf.

                “Let’s just pretend that you are real for a moment.  Why are you here?”

                “Hey, a halfway intelligent question.  I’m here to be your muse.  I’m going to sit here and heckle you until you write.  Then I get to leave this dump.   Wait until you see who comes to help you edit.” 

                “This is supposed to be help?”

                “Why can’t you write?  Cause those voices in your head are telling you that you can’t.  Just write.  It’s that simple.  You afraid it’s gonna be bad?  Of course it is, but that’s never stopped you before.  I’m just gonna be so loud you can’t hear those inner voices.” 

                “So, if I write you will go away?”

                “Ding, ding, ding.  See you can use your head to figure out things.  I just have to give you all the answers first.”

                I reached out to my laptop and started typing.  It didn’t matter what I wrote as long as I got something out.  I could always just delete it and write something else. Then I looked up and saw the elf sitting there with a beer in one hand and a candy cigarette in the other.  “Really?”

                “No more stalling human.  Write.”

                “Ok, ok, I’m writing.”  I sat there for the next half hour typing.  Was the story good?  No, but it was just the first draft, and it was complete.  I let out a sigh of relief as I looked up and saw the elf was gone.  I reached up to close my laptop.  I could always edit tomorrow.

                “NEIN!”  There on the shelf where the Elf on the Shelf had been was a soldier action figure. 

                “Who are you supposed to be?”

                The soldier stood and pointed to the swastika on his arm.  “This should be obvious.  I am the Grammar Nazi.”