Am I Memorex will not be resuming from where I stalled out. I will instead rewrite and finish and edit the story before posting it.
I think the hundred words a day was a nice experiment but it's not me. When
I write I do a lot of rewriting as I write. This means that until I'm done, nothing is set in stone. So eighteen parts in and I realized that I needed to go back and rewrite about half of what I'd written.
From now on I'll be posting only finish or nearly finished stories like yesterdays post. Which means that the volume of posts is going to drop to around once maybe twice a week.
I feel kind of bad for failing at posting a serial story but I think I can produce more stories by not shackling myself to just one.
I'll be back later this week with another story. Till then "Keep watching the skies." or somthing.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Untitled unfinished story
Ok I know I said I was going to continue with "Am I Memorex?" and I didn't. I'm sorry. I'm working on rewriting the story and will repost it soon.
This is a story I wrote several years ago. I had written it long hand so for a few years it sat in a notebook until one day I typed it up and then did nothing with it. Tonight I dusted it off. I did a little bit of quick surgery to a few paragraphs corrected as much spelling as I could and here it is. I never named this story and as it stands its still somewhat rough but I think it might be enjoyable and it's certainly better than not posting anything at all.
------------
I open the paper to the want ads. I need a job to pay next month's rent. I only brought enough for the first month with with from the last city I lived in. That had been one of the best cities for me to live in. Lasted five years there before I was discovered. I do mean discovered. This time I hadn't done anything to stand out. Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Well, okay so maybe I did one thing but it was only one thing.
Anyway I need a job and not just for rent, I'm hungry too. Lessee, Medical/Dental, no; Professional, no; Drivers, er no; General Employment, here we go; car wash attendant, security guard, gas station attendant, grocery checker, Avon and dish washer. Scribble down addresses, phone numbers, make notes. Next I find addresses on the map I bought when I first arrived in the city. Today is Sunday, Sunday is when most new job postings appear, so tomorrow I start hunting for my new life.
Being from out of town and having little verifiable work experience is always a minus. So I make up things. "See that store there, the one thats looks like its been boarded up for about three or four years. I worked there. Broke my heart when Mr. Soloman died and his wife closed it. She never liked any of us that worked there. Called us punks and thieves. Said we stole from the register. We didn't." At least that's what Mark Flannery said about it when I asked him. Turns out I worked there too, or so I say.
I get the graveyard shift at a gas station. Working a graveyard shift on a regular basis requires a lifestyle change. Day becomes night and night day.
Wake in late afternoon, about 5 or 6. Watch the sun set. Make brunch about 8 or 9. On work days I shower and dress about 9:30. My shift starts at 11. Other nights I watch TV or go to a 24 hour super shopping center and browse for a few hours. Watch the sun rise. Leave work at 8. Go home. After a quick rinse in the shower on my days off a full shower it's supper time. Another hour of TV and it's bedtime at about 10 or 11. This does not lead to a wild social life. Which felt right in this city, like I might not stay long or I might just stay forever.
In other places I had made more or less friends. Johnny was my friend until I did him a favor. He didn't like me after that. I might have been content with this life for a year or two, more would have been pressing my luck. I might have been but Mary wasn't. Mary wanted me to be her friend and so I was. Mary also thought I was unhappy having just her for a friend so she invited me to get togethers. Mary had a lot of friends from many different lifestyles. Mary was the type of person who wanted others to be happy because she genuinely cared about people. So she was the nicest person I the world unless you offended her.
Once we heard a man make a very not nice comment about a gay couple seated nearby. I remember her expression went hard, eyes that a second ago where sky blue became frosty gray. She got up walked up to him leaned over and whispered in his ear. His face started with a smile but slowly the glimmer in his eyes faded as his cheeks relaxed and his lips pressed together. She stood back while he took a drink of his bear before asking loudly, "Well what are you waiting for?" I saw him look at her with murder in his eyes as he stood up. I watched as he walked over to the couple he had insulted and apologized. Mary came back to our table and sat down as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to ask what had she done. As the question prepared to leave my tongue she reached across the table touched my hand and I looked into her eyes and knew that asking would make her unhappy because she couldn't tell me or would have to lie. I couldn't bear to be the cause of her unhappiness so I closed my mouth and she smiled a little brighter.
Mary's friends ranged from punks and goths to cheerleading blonds and homemakers. At first I thought she was showing me how many friends she had. Later I realized she was trying to find a group for me to belong. Not that she thought different people should be separated but they also shouldn't be forced together. I didn't belong to any group. I made a few friends here and there in several groups but I never really fit in with one group. After a while I realized I I belonged with Mary. I always fit in with Mary around.
I don't know when we became a couple, maybe it was like watching the sun rise. The sky begins to lighten, if you look away it comes up by itself, then there it is and you wonder how that happened. I didn't realize until one night I was alone and someone asked where my girlfriend was I answered before realizing the context and then it was like blinders had been torn from my eyes. The next night we talked about it. She had never mentioned past boyfriends or girlfriends for that matter. Neither had I.
She looked at me and said, "You move around a lot. Would you leave me?"
I couldn't lie, "Yes."
Then she said, "Are we a a couple?"
"If it makes you happy."
"It does."
"Then we are." And we were.
Then as things have a way of happening something happened and I had to do something. As always I left afterward. This is what happened.
We had been a couple for a month when I brushed a strand of hair back from her face, stoking her cheek as I did and then my head exploded. I saw. I saw in Technicolor and surround sound. I saw Mary's death. I saw the cancer eat her up. I saw the months of therapy for naught. Miracles can come from hope from the mind's inability to believe the body is dying. But for Mary there would be no miracles, no spontaneous remissions and no doctors with good news. The end would be the worst. Confined to bed in constant pain, she wishes for death but none will grant it. Not her doctors or friends. Even when there is no hope for recovery will they bestow mercy on her. She dies in the night screaming.
And then she was alive and well in front of me. She had been tired a lot lately. I never thought it might mean something. She knew something had happened but not what. We sat down and she held me while I cried for her death. When I was done I told her the things I hadn't told her. She listened and nodded and believed every word. She listened as I told her of her death. I had upset her and upsetting her made me feel worst. She knew this so she smiled and I felt a little better.
"Tomorrow I'll make an appointment with my doctor and we'll go from there." She said everything would be different because in my vision she waited longer to go to the doctor. Going sooner would save her, I had saved her she said.
But I hadn't.
She got sick anyway. Before I left I tried to see and it was the same. I left before it got bad. I couldn't watch her die a third time.
Before I decided to leave she told me about me. All the bad things I had ever done no matter how small were recounted. She finished her accounting of my misdeeds with, "... and you left your love to die in the dark, in pain and alone." I denied none of it, even though I ha not yet decided to leave. She knew these things because she had seen them every time we touched. She embraced her gift while I scorned my curse.
She said I should go soon so when she looked upon the days we were together they would be happy days. I stayed two more days, two more happy days.
Then I left.
I left in the morning after a good night's sleep. I took what I could fit in one suitcase. I took no pictures because the best times were burned into my mind. On the way into the new city I bought a map and newspaper.
It was Sunday, tomorrow I will look for a job.
This is a story I wrote several years ago. I had written it long hand so for a few years it sat in a notebook until one day I typed it up and then did nothing with it. Tonight I dusted it off. I did a little bit of quick surgery to a few paragraphs corrected as much spelling as I could and here it is. I never named this story and as it stands its still somewhat rough but I think it might be enjoyable and it's certainly better than not posting anything at all.
------------
I open the paper to the want ads. I need a job to pay next month's rent. I only brought enough for the first month with with from the last city I lived in. That had been one of the best cities for me to live in. Lasted five years there before I was discovered. I do mean discovered. This time I hadn't done anything to stand out. Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Well, okay so maybe I did one thing but it was only one thing.
Anyway I need a job and not just for rent, I'm hungry too. Lessee, Medical/Dental, no; Professional, no; Drivers, er no; General Employment, here we go; car wash attendant, security guard, gas station attendant, grocery checker, Avon and dish washer. Scribble down addresses, phone numbers, make notes. Next I find addresses on the map I bought when I first arrived in the city. Today is Sunday, Sunday is when most new job postings appear, so tomorrow I start hunting for my new life.
Being from out of town and having little verifiable work experience is always a minus. So I make up things. "See that store there, the one thats looks like its been boarded up for about three or four years. I worked there. Broke my heart when Mr. Soloman died and his wife closed it. She never liked any of us that worked there. Called us punks and thieves. Said we stole from the register. We didn't." At least that's what Mark Flannery said about it when I asked him. Turns out I worked there too, or so I say.
I get the graveyard shift at a gas station. Working a graveyard shift on a regular basis requires a lifestyle change. Day becomes night and night day.
Wake in late afternoon, about 5 or 6. Watch the sun set. Make brunch about 8 or 9. On work days I shower and dress about 9:30. My shift starts at 11. Other nights I watch TV or go to a 24 hour super shopping center and browse for a few hours. Watch the sun rise. Leave work at 8. Go home. After a quick rinse in the shower on my days off a full shower it's supper time. Another hour of TV and it's bedtime at about 10 or 11. This does not lead to a wild social life. Which felt right in this city, like I might not stay long or I might just stay forever.
In other places I had made more or less friends. Johnny was my friend until I did him a favor. He didn't like me after that. I might have been content with this life for a year or two, more would have been pressing my luck. I might have been but Mary wasn't. Mary wanted me to be her friend and so I was. Mary also thought I was unhappy having just her for a friend so she invited me to get togethers. Mary had a lot of friends from many different lifestyles. Mary was the type of person who wanted others to be happy because she genuinely cared about people. So she was the nicest person I the world unless you offended her.
Once we heard a man make a very not nice comment about a gay couple seated nearby. I remember her expression went hard, eyes that a second ago where sky blue became frosty gray. She got up walked up to him leaned over and whispered in his ear. His face started with a smile but slowly the glimmer in his eyes faded as his cheeks relaxed and his lips pressed together. She stood back while he took a drink of his bear before asking loudly, "Well what are you waiting for?" I saw him look at her with murder in his eyes as he stood up. I watched as he walked over to the couple he had insulted and apologized. Mary came back to our table and sat down as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to ask what had she done. As the question prepared to leave my tongue she reached across the table touched my hand and I looked into her eyes and knew that asking would make her unhappy because she couldn't tell me or would have to lie. I couldn't bear to be the cause of her unhappiness so I closed my mouth and she smiled a little brighter.
Mary's friends ranged from punks and goths to cheerleading blonds and homemakers. At first I thought she was showing me how many friends she had. Later I realized she was trying to find a group for me to belong. Not that she thought different people should be separated but they also shouldn't be forced together. I didn't belong to any group. I made a few friends here and there in several groups but I never really fit in with one group. After a while I realized I I belonged with Mary. I always fit in with Mary around.
I don't know when we became a couple, maybe it was like watching the sun rise. The sky begins to lighten, if you look away it comes up by itself, then there it is and you wonder how that happened. I didn't realize until one night I was alone and someone asked where my girlfriend was I answered before realizing the context and then it was like blinders had been torn from my eyes. The next night we talked about it. She had never mentioned past boyfriends or girlfriends for that matter. Neither had I.
She looked at me and said, "You move around a lot. Would you leave me?"
I couldn't lie, "Yes."
Then she said, "Are we a a couple?"
"If it makes you happy."
"It does."
"Then we are." And we were.
Then as things have a way of happening something happened and I had to do something. As always I left afterward. This is what happened.
We had been a couple for a month when I brushed a strand of hair back from her face, stoking her cheek as I did and then my head exploded. I saw. I saw in Technicolor and surround sound. I saw Mary's death. I saw the cancer eat her up. I saw the months of therapy for naught. Miracles can come from hope from the mind's inability to believe the body is dying. But for Mary there would be no miracles, no spontaneous remissions and no doctors with good news. The end would be the worst. Confined to bed in constant pain, she wishes for death but none will grant it. Not her doctors or friends. Even when there is no hope for recovery will they bestow mercy on her. She dies in the night screaming.
And then she was alive and well in front of me. She had been tired a lot lately. I never thought it might mean something. She knew something had happened but not what. We sat down and she held me while I cried for her death. When I was done I told her the things I hadn't told her. She listened and nodded and believed every word. She listened as I told her of her death. I had upset her and upsetting her made me feel worst. She knew this so she smiled and I felt a little better.
"Tomorrow I'll make an appointment with my doctor and we'll go from there." She said everything would be different because in my vision she waited longer to go to the doctor. Going sooner would save her, I had saved her she said.
But I hadn't.
She got sick anyway. Before I left I tried to see and it was the same. I left before it got bad. I couldn't watch her die a third time.
Before I decided to leave she told me about me. All the bad things I had ever done no matter how small were recounted. She finished her accounting of my misdeeds with, "... and you left your love to die in the dark, in pain and alone." I denied none of it, even though I ha not yet decided to leave. She knew these things because she had seen them every time we touched. She embraced her gift while I scorned my curse.
She said I should go soon so when she looked upon the days we were together they would be happy days. I stayed two more days, two more happy days.
Then I left.
I left in the morning after a good night's sleep. I took what I could fit in one suitcase. I took no pictures because the best times were burned into my mind. On the way into the new city I bought a map and newspaper.
It was Sunday, tomorrow I will look for a job.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Slight snag
I think I may have a problem. At some point in the last couple of days I started asking myself what I was saying with "Am I Memorex?" See I had this feeling that there was something I wanted 'say' with the story.(Which is usually a sign that I'm over thinking things.) Not like I wanted to preach some kind of lesson but rather to show some part of me. And today I figured out what part of me was trying to come out through the story.
This has a downside cause now that I know what I want the story to be, I can see bits that I want to change in the parts that I've already posted. I don't want to restart the story but I also don't want to make anyone who has been reading to have to go back and reread everything. Any ideas?
Until I figure out what I want to do about previous parts I will continue with the story as is.
This has a downside cause now that I know what I want the story to be, I can see bits that I want to change in the parts that I've already posted. I don't want to restart the story but I also don't want to make anyone who has been reading to have to go back and reread everything. Any ideas?
Until I figure out what I want to do about previous parts I will continue with the story as is.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Dead Weekend
Well it had to happen sooner or later. The next part of "Am I Memorex?" will not be posted tonight because I haven't written it yet. Normally I would would just write it before going to bed. I've done that once before and was able to hammer out a decent post in a couple of hours. Tonight I don't have the time. I have to get up early to take my nephew to the Instrument Fair, which is for kids who are going to be in band next year for the first time to try out some instruments and find one they would like to study. Also I'm working the closing shift at my job and then turning around and working 9am to 7pm on Sunday.
So it looks like the next time I'll really have time to sit down and write will be Sunday evening if I'm not too tired.
To my two or three regular readers I'm really sorry for missing tonight's post. I'm planning on making it up later this week so that there will be six parts to collect for the weekly digest.
Thank you for reading.
So it looks like the next time I'll really have time to sit down and write will be Sunday evening if I'm not too tired.
To my two or three regular readers I'm really sorry for missing tonight's post. I'm planning on making it up later this week so that there will be six parts to collect for the weekly digest.
Thank you for reading.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Week 3
We break for lunch and afterward move onto my/Regina's life.
Where was I/she born? Dallas.
What was my/her mother's maiden name? Williams.
Do I/she have any siblings? Yes, one older sister.
How old was my/her dog Spot when he died? Seven.
Who was the first person I/she kissed? Jamie White.
What did I/she want to be when I/she grew up? An astronaut.
How did my/her parents die? Car accident.
Was I/she ever married? No.
Did I/she have any kids? Yes.
How did she die? Regina died during heart surgery.
I was made without the defect that killed her.
---
"Well memory integration seems fine. How are your fine motor skills?" he asks me.
"Fine, I think." I raise my hand and make a fist and then extend each finger in turn.
He watches my hand and jots down a note before saying, "Well, I think we can move on to the physical tests then."
The nurse walks in with my clothes. She sets them down and then stands to one side. I hate this part of orientation. I stand and face away from the doctor. If I can't see him I can pretend he isn't there.
Like pulling off a bandaid, I strip off the hospital gown in one motion.
The doctor watches me get dressed. He doesn't want to but he must to watch for any motor skill degradation. It's part of orientation, the process they use to make sure my..Regina's memories and motor skills have been encoded correctly.
I've never failed orientation. At least I don't remember failing. One of my clones probably failed at least once but how could I know. They failed to become me.
It one of those things that you assume must happen but you don't know anyone who has experienced it. Orientation failure is the last boogyman I have.
I finish dressing and turn around, "Okay, I'm ready."
---
A short interlude in a darkened room. Light from a bank of monitors illuminate two men. On the monitors a woman runs on an indoor track.
"How is she preforming?" the first asks.
"Average. Better than expected," the second replies.
"She's the third?"
"Hmm, no. Fourth," the second man states.
"What happened to the third?"
"Accident. I sent you a memo."
"Huh, I never read those. Next time inform me directly."
"Yes sir."
They watch as she runs a short obstacle course. She runs through tires, swings on a rope, climbs a chain link fence. When she reaches the end she is short of breath and stands hands on thighs of a minute. The men marvel at she who less than a day ago had never stood under her own power.
The first man asks, "How long until stage five research begins?"
"Not long. Once we can guarantee subject viability without preforming the procedure we'll be ready to move on."
"How close are you?"
"With the new selection protocols we can screen out 75% of unsuitable subjects," he says with more than a bit of pride.
"Given that only 1% of the population is suitable I would say you still have a long way to go," the first man snaps.
"Our success rate has increased by 40% with the new protocols," the second man answers defensively.
"That's nice but the goal is a 100% success rate cloning anyone. Anything less is useless to our investors."
"I know that," the second man says. "Until we know why she," he gestures wildly at the monitors, "can cope with being a clone we won't be making progress."
"And the new selection protocols help how?"
"The new protocols weed out unstable subjects. The more stable subjects we have like her the closer we get to your 100% success rate."
"What makes her so special?"
"She was able to assimilate the knowledge that she had died and is now a clone very easy," he lies. How she took the news is only part of it. The more important part is that according to the new protocol she is not a suitable subject for cloning.
Where was I/she born? Dallas.
What was my/her mother's maiden name? Williams.
Do I/she have any siblings? Yes, one older sister.
How old was my/her dog Spot when he died? Seven.
Who was the first person I/she kissed? Jamie White.
What did I/she want to be when I/she grew up? An astronaut.
How did my/her parents die? Car accident.
Was I/she ever married? No.
Did I/she have any kids? Yes.
How did she die? Regina died during heart surgery.
I was made without the defect that killed her.
---
"Well memory integration seems fine. How are your fine motor skills?" he asks me.
"Fine, I think." I raise my hand and make a fist and then extend each finger in turn.
He watches my hand and jots down a note before saying, "Well, I think we can move on to the physical tests then."
The nurse walks in with my clothes. She sets them down and then stands to one side. I hate this part of orientation. I stand and face away from the doctor. If I can't see him I can pretend he isn't there.
Like pulling off a bandaid, I strip off the hospital gown in one motion.
The doctor watches me get dressed. He doesn't want to but he must to watch for any motor skill degradation. It's part of orientation, the process they use to make sure my..Regina's memories and motor skills have been encoded correctly.
I've never failed orientation. At least I don't remember failing. One of my clones probably failed at least once but how could I know. They failed to become me.
It one of those things that you assume must happen but you don't know anyone who has experienced it. Orientation failure is the last boogyman I have.
I finish dressing and turn around, "Okay, I'm ready."
---
A short interlude in a darkened room. Light from a bank of monitors illuminate two men. On the monitors a woman runs on an indoor track.
"How is she preforming?" the first asks.
"Average. Better than expected," the second replies.
"She's the third?"
"Hmm, no. Fourth," the second man states.
"What happened to the third?"
"Accident. I sent you a memo."
"Huh, I never read those. Next time inform me directly."
"Yes sir."
They watch as she runs a short obstacle course. She runs through tires, swings on a rope, climbs a chain link fence. When she reaches the end she is short of breath and stands hands on thighs of a minute. The men marvel at she who less than a day ago had never stood under her own power.
The first man asks, "How long until stage five research begins?"
"Not long. Once we can guarantee subject viability without preforming the procedure we'll be ready to move on."
"How close are you?"
"With the new selection protocols we can screen out 75% of unsuitable subjects," he says with more than a bit of pride.
"Given that only 1% of the population is suitable I would say you still have a long way to go," the first man snaps.
"Our success rate has increased by 40% with the new protocols," the second man answers defensively.
"That's nice but the goal is a 100% success rate cloning anyone. Anything less is useless to our investors."
"I know that," the second man says. "Until we know why she," he gestures wildly at the monitors, "can cope with being a clone we won't be making progress."
"And the new selection protocols help how?"
"The new protocols weed out unstable subjects. The more stable subjects we have like her the closer we get to your 100% success rate."
"What makes her so special?"
"She was able to assimilate the knowledge that she had died and is now a clone very easy," he lies. How she took the news is only part of it. The more important part is that according to the new protocol she is not a suitable subject for cloning.
Am I Memorex? - Part 18 - An Interlude
"I know that," the second man says. "Until we know why she," he gestures wildly at the monitors, "can cope with being a clone we won't be making progress."
"And the new selection protocols help how?"
"The new protocols weed out unstable subjects. The more stable subjects we have like her the closer we get to your 100% success rate."
"What makes her so special?"
"She was able to assimilate the knowledge that she had died and is now a clone very easy," he lies. How she took the news is only part of it. The more important part is that according to the new protocol she is not a suitable subject for cloning.
"And the new selection protocols help how?"
"The new protocols weed out unstable subjects. The more stable subjects we have like her the closer we get to your 100% success rate."
"What makes her so special?"
"She was able to assimilate the knowledge that she had died and is now a clone very easy," he lies. How she took the news is only part of it. The more important part is that according to the new protocol she is not a suitable subject for cloning.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 17 - An Interlude
The first man asks, "How long until stage five research begins?"
"Not long. Once we can guarantee subject viability without preforming the procedure we'll be ready to move on."
"How close are you?"
"With the new selection protocols we can screen out 75% of unsuitable subjects," he says with more than a bit of pride.
"Given that only 1% of the population is suitable I would say you still have a long way to go," the first man snaps.
"Our success rate has increased by 40% with the new protocols," the second man answers defensively.
"That's nice but the goal is a 100% success rate cloning anyone. Anything less is useless to our investors."
"Not long. Once we can guarantee subject viability without preforming the procedure we'll be ready to move on."
"How close are you?"
"With the new selection protocols we can screen out 75% of unsuitable subjects," he says with more than a bit of pride.
"Given that only 1% of the population is suitable I would say you still have a long way to go," the first man snaps.
"Our success rate has increased by 40% with the new protocols," the second man answers defensively.
"That's nice but the goal is a 100% success rate cloning anyone. Anything less is useless to our investors."
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 16 - An Interlude
A short interlude in a darkened room. Light from a bank of monitors illuminate two men. On the monitors a woman runs on an indoor track.
"How is she preforming?" the first asks.
"Average. Better than expected," the second replies.
"She's the third?"
"Hmm, no. Fourth," the second man states.
"What happened to the third?"
"Accident. I sent you a memo."
"Huh, I never read those. Next time inform me directly."
"Yes sir."
They watch as she runs a short obstacle course. She runs through tires, swings on a rope, climbs a chain link fence. When she reaches the end she is short of breath and stands hands on thighs of a minute. The men marvel at she who less than a day ago had never stood under her own power.
"How is she preforming?" the first asks.
"Average. Better than expected," the second replies.
"She's the third?"
"Hmm, no. Fourth," the second man states.
"What happened to the third?"
"Accident. I sent you a memo."
"Huh, I never read those. Next time inform me directly."
"Yes sir."
They watch as she runs a short obstacle course. She runs through tires, swings on a rope, climbs a chain link fence. When she reaches the end she is short of breath and stands hands on thighs of a minute. The men marvel at she who less than a day ago had never stood under her own power.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 15
The doctor watches me get dressed. He doesn't want to but he must to watch for any motor skill degradation. It's part of orientation, the process they use to make sure my..Regina's memories and motor skills have been encoded correctly.
I've never failed orientation. At least I don't remember failing. One of my clones probably failed at least once but how could I know. They failed to become me.
It one of those things that you assume must happen but you don't know anyone who has experienced it. Orientation failure is the last boogyman I have.
I finish dressing and turn around, "Okay, I'm ready."
I've never failed orientation. At least I don't remember failing. One of my clones probably failed at least once but how could I know. They failed to become me.
It one of those things that you assume must happen but you don't know anyone who has experienced it. Orientation failure is the last boogyman I have.
I finish dressing and turn around, "Okay, I'm ready."
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 14
"Well memory integration seems fine. How are your fine motor skills?" he asks me.
"Fine, I think." I raise my hand and make a fist and then extend each finger in turn.
He watches my hand and jots down a note before saying, "Well, I think we can move on to the physical tests then."
The nurse walks in with my clothes. She sets them down and then stands to one side. I hate this part of orientation. I stand and face away from the doctor. If I can't see him I can pretend he isn't there.
Like pulling off a bandaid, I strip off the hospital gown in one motion.
"Fine, I think." I raise my hand and make a fist and then extend each finger in turn.
He watches my hand and jots down a note before saying, "Well, I think we can move on to the physical tests then."
The nurse walks in with my clothes. She sets them down and then stands to one side. I hate this part of orientation. I stand and face away from the doctor. If I can't see him I can pretend he isn't there.
Like pulling off a bandaid, I strip off the hospital gown in one motion.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 13
We break for lunch and afterward move onto my/Regina's life.
Where was I/she born? Dallas.
What was my/her mother's maiden name? Williams.
Do I/she have any siblings? Yes, one older sister.
How old was my/her dog Spot when he died? Seven.
Who was the first person I/she kissed? Jamie White.
What did I/she want to be when I/she grew up? An astronaut.
How did my/her parents die? Car accident.
Was I/she ever married? No.
Did I/she have any kids? Yes.
How did she die? Regina died during heart surgery.
I was made without the defect that killed her.
Where was I/she born? Dallas.
What was my/her mother's maiden name? Williams.
Do I/she have any siblings? Yes, one older sister.
How old was my/her dog Spot when he died? Seven.
Who was the first person I/she kissed? Jamie White.
What did I/she want to be when I/she grew up? An astronaut.
How did my/her parents die? Car accident.
Was I/she ever married? No.
Did I/she have any kids? Yes.
How did she die? Regina died during heart surgery.
I was made without the defect that killed her.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Week 2
My second kick catches him square in the solar plexus. He doubles over gasping for air. I pull the flexible mask attached to the small air bottle on my belt free and stand over him. I open the bottle and force the mask over his mouth. He's gasping and can't not breath in the carbon monoxide filling the mask.
I kick him when he tries to get up. After a few minutes, he stops struggling. I hold the mask over his face until his chest stops as well.
I look up and the smoke has gotten thicker. I'm surrounded by people standing and watching. I wonder, "Why aren't they gasping and choking on the smoke?" then one lunges at me.
I grab and throw him into the wall. One jumps onto my back. Her hands claw at my face mask. Then the rest begin piling on.
My mask is torn free. Hot air and smoke burn my eyes and lungs. Someone presses a smaller air mask to my face and I take a breath. Something feels wrong. The air is wrong. I glance down and follow the air tube to my belt. I jerk my head away but strong arms hold me still. I feel heavy, tired, and I stop resisting. The arms holding me relax.
I feel fingers gently combing through my hair before it all goes black.
"You were having a nightmare," a voice says from behind me.
I turn and in the almost black of the room I can just barely see her. She's half laying, half sitting behind me fingers smoothing my hair. "Go back to sleep. It's still early," she tells me.
I nod and turn back to sleep. I feel chilled. Looking down I see my blankets and sheet are bunched and tangled around my feet. My angel in nurse guise sees them as well and helps me straighten them out.
Properly covered I fall back asleep and dream of nothing.
---
The lights are switched to full when I am expected to wake. I sit on the bed until the doctor arrives.
"Good morning," he says with a smile. He never smiles. "How are you today?"
"Better than I was yesterday," I say with a shrug.
"Hmm, yes being conscious could be considered an improvement over being comatose." He scribbles on his note pad, his fake smile slips revealing his normal frown.
"I meant being alive is better than being dead."
"Hmm, well you weren't really dead yesterday, were you? Hmm brain dead maybe," he mused to himself, "but then you clones start that way."
Clone. It's what I am, I know this. I just don't like being reminded.
My body was grown in a lab. My thoughts implanted by machines I don't understand. I am not who I think I am. Regina Ortiz died three years ago. I'm just her shadow. It's easy to forget. Easier sometimes to let myself forget.
"Hmm, are you all right?" the doctor asks in an uncommon show of empathy.
"Yeah, just tired from being comatose and brain dead."
He nods and scribbles something else on his note pad. "Well when you're ready we can begin."
"Sure thing doctor. Fire away."
For three hours he asks me questions about general facts and history.
"What's the square root of 144?"
"12."
"What is Newton's first law of motion?"
"An object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon be an outside force."
"Who was the second man on the moon?"
"Buzz Aldrin."
"Who shoot JFK?" We argue about this one but he's not here to debate me and we move on.
"Is light a particle or a wave?" We disagree again but have fun disagreeing with diagrams and a page of math.
"What city was Fat Man dropped on?"
"Nagasaki, Japan." And so on.
I kick him when he tries to get up. After a few minutes, he stops struggling. I hold the mask over his face until his chest stops as well.
I look up and the smoke has gotten thicker. I'm surrounded by people standing and watching. I wonder, "Why aren't they gasping and choking on the smoke?" then one lunges at me.
I grab and throw him into the wall. One jumps onto my back. Her hands claw at my face mask. Then the rest begin piling on.
My mask is torn free. Hot air and smoke burn my eyes and lungs. Someone presses a smaller air mask to my face and I take a breath. Something feels wrong. The air is wrong. I glance down and follow the air tube to my belt. I jerk my head away but strong arms hold me still. I feel heavy, tired, and I stop resisting. The arms holding me relax.
I feel fingers gently combing through my hair before it all goes black.
"You were having a nightmare," a voice says from behind me.
I turn and in the almost black of the room I can just barely see her. She's half laying, half sitting behind me fingers smoothing my hair. "Go back to sleep. It's still early," she tells me.
I nod and turn back to sleep. I feel chilled. Looking down I see my blankets and sheet are bunched and tangled around my feet. My angel in nurse guise sees them as well and helps me straighten them out.
Properly covered I fall back asleep and dream of nothing.
---
The lights are switched to full when I am expected to wake. I sit on the bed until the doctor arrives.
"Good morning," he says with a smile. He never smiles. "How are you today?"
"Better than I was yesterday," I say with a shrug.
"Hmm, yes being conscious could be considered an improvement over being comatose." He scribbles on his note pad, his fake smile slips revealing his normal frown.
"I meant being alive is better than being dead."
"Hmm, well you weren't really dead yesterday, were you? Hmm brain dead maybe," he mused to himself, "but then you clones start that way."
Clone. It's what I am, I know this. I just don't like being reminded.
My body was grown in a lab. My thoughts implanted by machines I don't understand. I am not who I think I am. Regina Ortiz died three years ago. I'm just her shadow. It's easy to forget. Easier sometimes to let myself forget.
"Hmm, are you all right?" the doctor asks in an uncommon show of empathy.
"Yeah, just tired from being comatose and brain dead."
He nods and scribbles something else on his note pad. "Well when you're ready we can begin."
"Sure thing doctor. Fire away."
For three hours he asks me questions about general facts and history.
"What's the square root of 144?"
"12."
"What is Newton's first law of motion?"
"An object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon be an outside force."
"Who was the second man on the moon?"
"Buzz Aldrin."
"Who shoot JFK?" We argue about this one but he's not here to debate me and we move on.
"Is light a particle or a wave?" We disagree again but have fun disagreeing with diagrams and a page of math.
"What city was Fat Man dropped on?"
"Nagasaki, Japan." And so on.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 12
For three hours he asks me questions about general facts and history.
"What's the square root of 144?"
"12."
"What is Newton's first law of motion?"
"An object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon be an outside force."
"Who was the second man on the moon?"
"Buzz Aldrin."
"Who shoot JFK?" We argue about this one but he's not here to debate me and we move on.
"Is light a particle or a wave?" We disagree again but have fun disagreeing with diagrams and a page of math.
"What city was Fat Man dropped on?"
"Nagasaki, Japan." And so on.
"What's the square root of 144?"
"12."
"What is Newton's first law of motion?"
"An object in motion remains in motion unless acted upon be an outside force."
"Who was the second man on the moon?"
"Buzz Aldrin."
"Who shoot JFK?" We argue about this one but he's not here to debate me and we move on.
"Is light a particle or a wave?" We disagree again but have fun disagreeing with diagrams and a page of math.
"What city was Fat Man dropped on?"
"Nagasaki, Japan." And so on.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 11
Clone. It's what I am, I know this. I just don't like being reminded.
My body was grown in a lab. My thoughts implanted by machines I don't understand. I am not who I think I am. Regina Ortiz died three years ago. I'm just her shadow. It's easy to forget. Easier sometimes to let myself forget.
"Hmm, are you all right?" the doctor asks in an uncommon show of empathy.
"Yeah, just tired from being comatose and brain dead."
He nods and scribbles something else on his note pad. "Well when you're ready we can begin."
"Sure thing doctor. Fire away."
My body was grown in a lab. My thoughts implanted by machines I don't understand. I am not who I think I am. Regina Ortiz died three years ago. I'm just her shadow. It's easy to forget. Easier sometimes to let myself forget.
"Hmm, are you all right?" the doctor asks in an uncommon show of empathy.
"Yeah, just tired from being comatose and brain dead."
He nods and scribbles something else on his note pad. "Well when you're ready we can begin."
"Sure thing doctor. Fire away."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 10
The lights are switched to full when I am expected to wake. I sit on the bed until the doctor arrives.
"Good morning," he says with a smile. He never smiles. "How are you today?"
"Better than I was yesterday," I say with a shrug.
"Hmm, yes being conscious could be considered an improvement over being comatose." He scribbles on his note pad, his fake smile slips revealing his normal frown.
"I meant being alive is better than being dead."
"Hmm, well you weren't really dead yesterday, were you? Hmm brain dead maybe," he muses to himself, "but then you clones start that way."
"Good morning," he says with a smile. He never smiles. "How are you today?"
"Better than I was yesterday," I say with a shrug.
"Hmm, yes being conscious could be considered an improvement over being comatose." He scribbles on his note pad, his fake smile slips revealing his normal frown.
"I meant being alive is better than being dead."
"Hmm, well you weren't really dead yesterday, were you? Hmm brain dead maybe," he muses to himself, "but then you clones start that way."
Monday, April 6, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 9
"You were having a nightmare," a voice says from behind me.
I turn and in the almost black of the room I can just barely see her. She's half laying, half sitting behind me fingers smoothing my hair. "Go back to sleep. It's still early," she tells me.
I nod and turn back to sleep. I feel chilled. Looking down I see my blankets and sheet are bunched and tangled around my feet. My angel in nurse guise sees them as well and helps me straighten them out.
Properly covered I fall back asleep and dream of nothing.
I turn and in the almost black of the room I can just barely see her. She's half laying, half sitting behind me fingers smoothing my hair. "Go back to sleep. It's still early," she tells me.
I nod and turn back to sleep. I feel chilled. Looking down I see my blankets and sheet are bunched and tangled around my feet. My angel in nurse guise sees them as well and helps me straighten them out.
Properly covered I fall back asleep and dream of nothing.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 8
I grab and throw him into the wall. One jumps onto my back. Her hands claw at my face mask. Then the rest begin piling on.
My mask is torn free. Hot air and smoke burn my eyes and lungs. Someone presses a smaller air mask to my face and I take a breath. Something feels wrong. The air is wrong. I glance down and follow the air tube to my belt. I jerk my head away but strong arms hold me still. I feel heavy, tired, and I stop resisting. The arms holding me relax.
I feel fingers gently combing through my hair before it all goes black.
My mask is torn free. Hot air and smoke burn my eyes and lungs. Someone presses a smaller air mask to my face and I take a breath. Something feels wrong. The air is wrong. I glance down and follow the air tube to my belt. I jerk my head away but strong arms hold me still. I feel heavy, tired, and I stop resisting. The arms holding me relax.
I feel fingers gently combing through my hair before it all goes black.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 7
My second kick catches him square in the solar plexus. He doubles over gasping for air. I pull the flexible mask attached to the small air bottle on my belt free and stand over him. I open the bottle and force the mask over his mouth. He can't stop himself from breathing in the carbon monoxide. He struggles get weaker with each breath until he stops moving. I hold the mask over his face until his chest stops as well.
The smoke is getting thicker. I look around and I'm surrounded. Why aren't they gasping and choking on the smoke? I wonder before the first one lunges at me.
The smoke is getting thicker. I look around and I'm surrounded. Why aren't they gasping and choking on the smoke? I wonder before the first one lunges at me.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Week 1
I die. They make a copy. It looks like me. It sounds like me. It thinks like me. It thinks it is me. But I am dead. I've been dead for a long time now. I am not really writing this. A copy of me is writing this.
I live. I am reborn time after time, death after death. I am the same person I've always been. This body or the next it matters not. What matters is who I am inside. I am me inside.
Two ways of looking at my existence. Only one is sane. But which one?
---
I awaken with a headache in a familiar room. This is the room where the new mes wakeup, when the old mes die. I'm a new me. A copy, a fraud, a shame. I try to think back, what happen to the last me? Fire and the smell burning flesh waft through my mind. Better not to remember I think.
"How are you feeling?" the nurse asks me while fiddling with something behind me. She's not supposed to talk to me. I'm a super secret government project. I'm not even supposed to talk to me. Or her. But I do.
"Fine," I say, "Bit of a headache. How's your sister?"
She flashes me with her white teeth. "She's doing better," her smile slips a little, "The chemo is working and she's in remission. How about I get you something for that headache?"
"Sure," I say as she walks out of the room. I watch her backside sway with each step until the door closes and locks with a thump behind her. She's only person I know that isn't a government spook. She's the closest thing to a friend I have. I wish I didn't have to die to see her.
She brings me aspirin in a little plastic cup. I toss them back and drink from the lukewarm glass of water by my bed.
"Besides the headache are you experiencing any discomfort?" her hand rest lightly on my forehead. It's coolness feels good to my skin.
"No. Just the splitting headache," I say. Her hand slides down the side of my face cupping my cheek for a second before moving on to my shoulder and squeezing it gently.
"It's late you should get some rest. They'll want to start the test first thing in the morning," she reminds me.
She turns down the lights before leaving. I close my eyes and fall asleep before the door closes and locks with a thump.
I dream of a smoke filled hallway.
People cough and stumble through it to the stairwell. I can see and breathe easy because I am wearing firefighting gear. I'm not a firefighter.
I walk against the flow of people, checking rooms for stranglers, guiding them to the stairs. No one in the hotel is supposed to die tonight. Except for one man.
I see him. Half his face is behind a wet towel and he's crouched down low, his free hand following the wall to the stairs.
He's followed the wall into a small alcove. I make my way to him. He sees me as I walk toward him but does nothing to stop me from kicking him in the crotch. I've landed one solid blow but he isn't down yet. My kick to his stomach is intercepted and he nearly makes me fall but the first blow left him gasping and the lack of fresh air is hampering him.
He looks at me, our eyes meet and I can see the accusation in his eyes. I'm not playing fair. I've stacked the deck in my favor. For a second I think about feeling sorry for him but I don't.
I live. I am reborn time after time, death after death. I am the same person I've always been. This body or the next it matters not. What matters is who I am inside. I am me inside.
Two ways of looking at my existence. Only one is sane. But which one?
---
I awaken with a headache in a familiar room. This is the room where the new mes wakeup, when the old mes die. I'm a new me. A copy, a fraud, a shame. I try to think back, what happen to the last me? Fire and the smell burning flesh waft through my mind. Better not to remember I think.
"How are you feeling?" the nurse asks me while fiddling with something behind me. She's not supposed to talk to me. I'm a super secret government project. I'm not even supposed to talk to me. Or her. But I do.
"Fine," I say, "Bit of a headache. How's your sister?"
She flashes me with her white teeth. "She's doing better," her smile slips a little, "The chemo is working and she's in remission. How about I get you something for that headache?"
"Sure," I say as she walks out of the room. I watch her backside sway with each step until the door closes and locks with a thump behind her. She's only person I know that isn't a government spook. She's the closest thing to a friend I have. I wish I didn't have to die to see her.
She brings me aspirin in a little plastic cup. I toss them back and drink from the lukewarm glass of water by my bed.
"Besides the headache are you experiencing any discomfort?" her hand rest lightly on my forehead. It's coolness feels good to my skin.
"No. Just the splitting headache," I say. Her hand slides down the side of my face cupping my cheek for a second before moving on to my shoulder and squeezing it gently.
"It's late you should get some rest. They'll want to start the test first thing in the morning," she reminds me.
She turns down the lights before leaving. I close my eyes and fall asleep before the door closes and locks with a thump.
I dream of a smoke filled hallway.
People cough and stumble through it to the stairwell. I can see and breathe easy because I am wearing firefighting gear. I'm not a firefighter.
I walk against the flow of people, checking rooms for stranglers, guiding them to the stairs. No one in the hotel is supposed to die tonight. Except for one man.
I see him. Half his face is behind a wet towel and he's crouched down low, his free hand following the wall to the stairs.
He's followed the wall into a small alcove. I make my way to him. He sees me as I walk toward him but does nothing to stop me from kicking him in the crotch. I've landed one solid blow but he isn't down yet. My kick to his stomach is intercepted and he nearly makes me fall but the first blow left him gasping and the lack of fresh air is hampering him.
He looks at me, our eyes meet and I can see the accusation in his eyes. I'm not playing fair. I've stacked the deck in my favor. For a second I think about feeling sorry for him but I don't.
Am I Memorex? - Part 6
He's followed the wall into a small alcove. I make my way to him. He sees me as I walk toward him but does nothing to stop me from kicking him in the crotch. I've landed one solid blow but he isn't down yet. My kick to his stomach is intercepted and he nearly makes me fall but the first blow left him gasping and the lack of fresh air is hampering him.
He looks at me, our eyes meet and I can see the accusation in his eyes. I'm not playing fair. I've stacked the deck in my favor. For a second I think about feeling sorry for him but I don't.
He looks at me, our eyes meet and I can see the accusation in his eyes. I'm not playing fair. I've stacked the deck in my favor. For a second I think about feeling sorry for him but I don't.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 5
She turns down the lights before leaving. I close my eyes and fall asleep before the door closes and the locks thump.
I dream of a smoke filled hallway.
People cough and stumble through it to the stairwell. I can see and breathe easy because I am wearing firefighting gear. I'm not a firefighter.
I walk against the flow of people, checking rooms for stranglers, guiding them to the stairs. No one in the hotel is supposed to die tonight. Except for one man.
I see him. Half his face is behind a wet towel and he's crouched down low, his free hand following the wall to the stairs.
I dream of a smoke filled hallway.
People cough and stumble through it to the stairwell. I can see and breathe easy because I am wearing firefighting gear. I'm not a firefighter.
I walk against the flow of people, checking rooms for stranglers, guiding them to the stairs. No one in the hotel is supposed to die tonight. Except for one man.
I see him. Half his face is behind a wet towel and he's crouched down low, his free hand following the wall to the stairs.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 4
She brings me aspirin in a little plastic cup. I toss them back and drink from the lukewarm glass of water by my bed.
"Besides the headache are you experiencing any discomfort?" her hand rest lightly on my forehead. It's coolness feels good to my skin.
"No. Just the spliting headache," I say. Her hand slides down the side of my face cupping my cheak for a second before moving on to my shoulder and squeazing it gently.
"It's late you should get some rest. They'll want to start the tests first thing in the morning," she reminds me.
"Besides the headache are you experiencing any discomfort?" her hand rest lightly on my forehead. It's coolness feels good to my skin.
"No. Just the spliting headache," I say. Her hand slides down the side of my face cupping my cheak for a second before moving on to my shoulder and squeazing it gently.
"It's late you should get some rest. They'll want to start the tests first thing in the morning," she reminds me.
Am I Memorex? - Part 3
"Fine," I say, "Bit of a headache. How's your sister?"
She flashes me with her white teeth. "She's doing better," her smile slips a little, "The chemo is working and she's in remission. How about I get you something for that headache?"
"Sure," I say as she walks out of the room. I watch her backside sway with each step until the door closes and locks with a thump behind her. She only person I know that isn't a government spook. She's the closest thing to a friend I have. I wish I didn't have to die to see her.
She flashes me with her white teeth. "She's doing better," her smile slips a little, "The chemo is working and she's in remission. How about I get you something for that headache?"
"Sure," I say as she walks out of the room. I watch her backside sway with each step until the door closes and locks with a thump behind her. She only person I know that isn't a government spook. She's the closest thing to a friend I have. I wish I didn't have to die to see her.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 2
I awaken with a headache in a familiar room. This is the room where the new mes wakeup, when the old mes die. I'm a new me. A copy, a fraud, a shame. I try to think back, what happen to the last me? Fire and the smell burning flesh waft through my mind. Better not to remember I think.
"How are you feeling?" a nurse asks me while fiddling with something behind me. She's not supposed to talk to me. I'm a super secret government project. I'm not even supposed to talk to me. Or her. But I do.
"How are you feeling?" a nurse asks me while fiddling with something behind me. She's not supposed to talk to me. I'm a super secret government project. I'm not even supposed to talk to me. Or her. But I do.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Am I Memorex? - Part 1
I'm starting something new. I'm going to be writing hundred word story chunks six days a week. At the end of the week I'll post the entire week's worth of story together.
So without any further ado, here is part one of "Am I Memorex?"
---
I die. They make a copy. It looks like me. It sounds like me. It thinks like me. It thinks it is me. But I am dead. I've been dead for a long time now. I am not really writing this. A copy of me is writing this.
I live. I am reborn time after time, death after death. I am the same person I've always been. This body or the next it matters not. What matters is who I am inside. I am me inside.
Two ways of looking at my existence. Only one is sane. But which one?
So without any further ado, here is part one of "Am I Memorex?"
---
I die. They make a copy. It looks like me. It sounds like me. It thinks like me. It thinks it is me. But I am dead. I've been dead for a long time now. I am not really writing this. A copy of me is writing this.
I live. I am reborn time after time, death after death. I am the same person I've always been. This body or the next it matters not. What matters is who I am inside. I am me inside.
Two ways of looking at my existence. Only one is sane. But which one?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Introductions
Hello I'm Gillian or Gilly or even Gill.
This is my second blog on blogger. My first Infowhore Speaks is my everyday blog. I try to post something once a day, whatever I feel like speaking about from reviews of movies to accounts of my days off. I've even posted a few pieces of fiction. After giving it some thought I've decided to split my fiction off on it's on blog. What made me decide to do this? Well honestly I want to be a writer and I started blogging as a way to get into the habit of writing everyday, which it has. Unfortunately I'm not writing much fiction. It's too easy for me to churn out a post about the last movie I saw rather than the next part of the story I'm trying to write. So the idea is to isolate my fiction so I feel guilty about not writing the next part.
I'm going to start by editing and reposting the stories I've previously posted on Infowhore Speaks. Since I usually have Mondays and Tuesday off I'm going to aim for at least one post a week on Monday night or Tuesday morning.
This is my second blog on blogger. My first Infowhore Speaks is my everyday blog. I try to post something once a day, whatever I feel like speaking about from reviews of movies to accounts of my days off. I've even posted a few pieces of fiction. After giving it some thought I've decided to split my fiction off on it's on blog. What made me decide to do this? Well honestly I want to be a writer and I started blogging as a way to get into the habit of writing everyday, which it has. Unfortunately I'm not writing much fiction. It's too easy for me to churn out a post about the last movie I saw rather than the next part of the story I'm trying to write. So the idea is to isolate my fiction so I feel guilty about not writing the next part.
I'm going to start by editing and reposting the stories I've previously posted on Infowhore Speaks. Since I usually have Mondays and Tuesday off I'm going to aim for at least one post a week on Monday night or Tuesday morning.
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