Another entry in the Short Story SmackDown.
When Harold woke that morning, the sun was shining cheerfully through the window of his second story apartment. The air felt crisp and clean. It was going to be a beautiful day.
When Harold's phone started vibrating epileptically while Harold was in the bathroom shaving, he didn't notice. Harold's phone was still buzzing itself to pieces in a desperate bid to catch his attention as he was making himself a cup of tea. While Harold read through the newspaper in the living room, he was blissfully unaware of the storm of messages that were bombarding his phone as it rattled helplessly on the nightstand by his bed.
It wasn't until a quarter to eight when Harold finally made his way back into his room. He found his phone on the floor near his bed. It had vibrated itself right off the nightstand. Harold ran his thumb over the cracked screen, sighing. This new Foxxcon model was supposed to be all but indestructible. "Made in America," he mumbled sarcastically.
Harold pressed his thumb against the biometric reader embedded in the screen and the phone chirped to life. At least it still worked. He held the phone at arm's length and it scanned his face and retina. After a moment, Harold spoke a gibberish passphrase, completing the multi-factor biometric authentication protocol and the phone quickly decrypted itself.
Some of Harold's colleagues had razzed him about his adoption of the MFBAP, but Harold swore by it. "Come on," one of Harold's closest friends Gary had chided him, "the world has changed so much. They've been opening up for years. We have the rule of law, now."
But Harold wasn't so sure. Granted, the Great Purge had happened years before he had been born. But Harold had grown up with stories from his Grandma and his parents, telling him about what it had been like when the President had suspended the judiciary and executed thousands of lawyers. Even though Harold had come of age in a time of increased liberalism and legality, he couldn't help but feel a little paranoid, especially as a human rights lawyer.
Once Harold's phone had decrypted, a flood of messages filled the screen. Harold's stomach sank as he read through the chaos. Gary, his security-skeptic friend had been arrested. Government agents had raided his apartment just that morning, plucking him from his bed and dragging him from the building naked except for a black bag over his head. Harold shook his head in disbelief. Gary was one of the best human rights lawyers Harold knew. He was one of Harold's closest friends. They had worked on dozens of cases together over the years.
As Harold worked to wrap his brain around what had just happened, his phone started to go crazy in his hand, nearly shaking itself from his grip. The messages were coming frantically, from nearly all of the other human rights lawyers that Harold knew and worked with, from all across the Bay Area. Government agents were storming homes and offices, bagging lawyers, and dragging them away. Harold felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The stories he had heard during his childhood were suddenly becoming real-life nightmares. The government was purging the judiciary.
Just then, the door to Harold's apartment exploded inward. Agents in tactical gear burst into his apartment. He barely had time to issue the encryption command to his phone before he was tackled and his world went black.
***
Harold squinted his eyes against the blinding lights shining into his face. He had no idea where he was. After they had bagged him and dragged him from his apartment, someone had knocked him unconscious. When he woke, he was strapped into a cold metal chair, his head restrained, with bright white lights glaring straight into his eyes. Harold's mind raced as he recalled the stories he had grown up with. "Don't fight," his Grandma had told him. "That's how they get you. Let yourself flow like a river. When they took your Pop-pop, he was like water. It took them days of round the clock torture to break him. He died with dignity."
"Harold Cunningham," a nasal voice squealed through the blinding light. "Let's get to the point. You can make this easy, or you can make this difficult. Your colleagues - your lawyer friends - have all confessed already. All we ask is that you confess, too. I have a document listing your crimes. Confess and it will end before it begins." The voice thrust a sheet of paper in front of Harold's face. It listed a litany of false accusations. "Confess," the voice said.
"I'd love to confess," Harold said, "but I just don't remember committing these crimes. No, I happen to be one of those people whose memory shuts down under pressure."
Harold's vision exploded into a constellation of stars as something hot and heavy smashed into his face. "Have it your way, Mr. Cunningham," the voice said. "The drink," the voice called out.
Harold squinted hard, looking past the lights to see a shadow mixing liquids together. As it added the last liquid, the solution turned opaque. Harold had heard about "the drink" from his clients but had always assumed it was hyperbole on their part. He swallowed hard.
"Do you know what this is?" the voice asked Harold
"I have no idea," Harold said as bravely as he could. "But by mother told me to never trust any complicated cocktail that remains perfectly clear until the last ingredient goes in, and then immediately clouds."
"You're trying to be a hero," the voice laughed. Invisible hands grabbed at Harold's face, prying open his mouth. "You think you can attack the government with law? You're attacking soldiers with words? You don't understand, Mr. Cunningham. What your soldier wants -- really, really wants -- is no-one shooting back at him. You're shooting blanks. We use bullets." The voice giggled as it tipped the drink into Harold's mouth.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
What to Read
As a relatively unknown and unread author, the plight of the emerging writer is one that I can relate to quite well. Because of this, I made the decision back in May to start focusing my scarce reading time on the work of independent, new, and relatively unknown writers. I'll be honest, much of the stereotypes about independently published authors is firmly based in reality, but I've also found some real hidden gems.
That said, my goal isn't really to find authors that I enjoy reading. What I'm aiming to do here is to read and then honestly rate books so that they can be represented on Amazon in a way that provides other readers with meaningful feedback on the book and the author with the chance to get an idea of what people really think about their work. I think that this is the sort of thing that all small time authors should be doing. Not only does it help our own writing, but it also helps out fellow authors. It is frustrating as fuck to have books out there that get consistent (albeit low) sales, but garner zero reviews. Reviews help drive sales and, perhaps more importantly, reviews help keep writers motivated to keep writing.
So, I'm issuing a call to action to all independent, aspiring, emerging, fledgling, amateur, semi-pro, self-published, unknown writers out there: go and read a book by another author that's in your same situation. Once you've read it, leave an honest review. If we all did this, we would all have a handful of reviews (or at least starred ratings), and I feel that the writing world would genuinely be a better place :D
That said, my goal isn't really to find authors that I enjoy reading. What I'm aiming to do here is to read and then honestly rate books so that they can be represented on Amazon in a way that provides other readers with meaningful feedback on the book and the author with the chance to get an idea of what people really think about their work. I think that this is the sort of thing that all small time authors should be doing. Not only does it help our own writing, but it also helps out fellow authors. It is frustrating as fuck to have books out there that get consistent (albeit low) sales, but garner zero reviews. Reviews help drive sales and, perhaps more importantly, reviews help keep writers motivated to keep writing.
So, I'm issuing a call to action to all independent, aspiring, emerging, fledgling, amateur, semi-pro, self-published, unknown writers out there: go and read a book by another author that's in your same situation. Once you've read it, leave an honest review. If we all did this, we would all have a handful of reviews (or at least starred ratings), and I feel that the writing world would genuinely be a better place :D
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Burn it Down
Another entry in the Short Story SmackDown. The musical inspiration I chose was "Burn it Down" by The Cog is Dead.
***
Sanjuro dug his thumbs into his temples, grinding away at his skull as if he could somehow push the terrible sound out of his head. He had tried everything he could think of to rid himself of the incessant thumping, the blaring horns, and the wretched English gibberish. But over the past three weeks, the sound had only seemed to get louder and louder. It was slowly driving him insane.
"Mifune, are you listening?" a voice called through the cacophony. "Mifune!"
Sanjuro's head bolted upright so quickly that he nearly tossed himself from his chair. "Ah, yes, I'm sorry sir! I... I just have a splitting headache. I... it must be a migraine. I'm having trouble concentrating."
Sanjuro's boss looked at him skeptically. "You've been acting strange since you returned from the sales call in Hong Kong," he said. "Did you pick up a bug while you were down there?"
"That must be it," Sanjuro lied. "I think I got sick from drinking the water." He was having trouble hearing himself speak over the sound pulsing violently inside his own skull.
"Go and have yourself checked out," his boss said, dismissing Sanjuro with a gesture. "We don't need you infecting the rest of the team here."
"Thank you, sir," Sanjuro said, bowing deeply as he stumbled from the conference room. "I'll go and get checked out immediately."
Sanjuro shambled down the hall, the sound of drums pounding rhythmically in his brain. The secretary said something to him as he passed her desk, but he couldn't hear her voice. The sound, the goddamn sound... by the time he left the building, his head was spinning wildly. For a fleeting moment he considered heeding his boss' advice and going to have himself examined by a doctor. But he knew he couldn't do that, not with what he had inside his head.
"Hey! Watch it, buddy," a man on a bicycle barked as he whizzed past. Sanjuro lost his balance, backpedaling until he tripped over a curb and fell to the ground, striking his head on the marble walkway.
Suddenly, the sound stopped. Sanjuro started to shake with relief... after weeks of the same wretched song looping endlessly in his head, drowning out everything else, he could finally hear himself think. He couldn't help but laugh out loud, and then laugh harder still at the crystal clear sound of his own voice. But then a sudden fear grabbed hold of him; how long would this silence last? He cursed himself under his own breath. This was a mess he had created. Everyone had warned him against getting cybernetic implants abroad. Hell, the government even had laws against it - which was why he couldn't go to see a doctor. Doctors were mandatory reporters. Once they scanned him and realized that he had an unlicensed implant, they'd turn him right over to the police. Sanjuro's stomach tightened at the thought of doing time in Fuchu prison.
"Ugh," he groaned, lamenting the mess he'd stepped into. He'd had friends and coworkers who had had cybernetic upgrades and none of them had had any side effects. Those positive experiences had convinced him that it was a good idea to skip across the border while in Hong Kong and get a cheap knock-off implant installed in Shenzhen. He'd save some money and get an upgrade, all while getting paid by his company. It seemed like a win-win.
But within days of returning to Tokyo, the sound had started. He still remembered clearly the first confusing moments as a driving drum beat had swelled in his mind. At first, he had thought he was hearing a ringtone or a loud radio from another room - but then the growling monotone of the singing had started and Sanjuro knew that something was very, very wrong. Sanjuro couldn't speak English very well, he could still recognize the sound of the language and he knew that what he was hearing was an English song. But the dominance of American cultural influence had petered out decades ago, well before Sanjuro was born. Nobody played English songs anymore. Especially songs that sounded so dated. What he had started hearing must have had something to do with the implant that he had just had installed. Somehow, the quack in Shenzhen had installed an implant that played an old American pop song on repeat instead of the auditory upgrade Sanjuro had paid for.
As he thought about his situation, the song started up again; quietly at first, and then building in volume and intensity. Sanjuro clawed at his ears and pulled at his hair. "No!" he screamed in desperation. "I can't take it any longer, I can't listen to this song for another moment!" He cast his gaze about, searching frantically for an escape. His eyes settled on the hectic traffic in the street just a few meters away. Remembering how the sound had stopped when he had struck his head on the ground, Sanjuro grinned to himself grimly.
The words of the song rang in his brain as he darted toward the street: It's time to strike a match and burn it down... Sanjuro had no idea what the words meant, but he knew the strange foreign syllables by rote memory. Screaming to drown out the sound, he launched himself into the road. In the moment that his skull made impact with the gleaming bumper of a speeding vehicle, the sound abruptly stopped and Sanjuro sighed in relief just before his head exploded and his body was shredded to pieces in the frenzied onslaught of traffic.
***
Sanjuro dug his thumbs into his temples, grinding away at his skull as if he could somehow push the terrible sound out of his head. He had tried everything he could think of to rid himself of the incessant thumping, the blaring horns, and the wretched English gibberish. But over the past three weeks, the sound had only seemed to get louder and louder. It was slowly driving him insane.
"Mifune, are you listening?" a voice called through the cacophony. "Mifune!"
Sanjuro's head bolted upright so quickly that he nearly tossed himself from his chair. "Ah, yes, I'm sorry sir! I... I just have a splitting headache. I... it must be a migraine. I'm having trouble concentrating."
Sanjuro's boss looked at him skeptically. "You've been acting strange since you returned from the sales call in Hong Kong," he said. "Did you pick up a bug while you were down there?"
"That must be it," Sanjuro lied. "I think I got sick from drinking the water." He was having trouble hearing himself speak over the sound pulsing violently inside his own skull.
"Go and have yourself checked out," his boss said, dismissing Sanjuro with a gesture. "We don't need you infecting the rest of the team here."
"Thank you, sir," Sanjuro said, bowing deeply as he stumbled from the conference room. "I'll go and get checked out immediately."
Sanjuro shambled down the hall, the sound of drums pounding rhythmically in his brain. The secretary said something to him as he passed her desk, but he couldn't hear her voice. The sound, the goddamn sound... by the time he left the building, his head was spinning wildly. For a fleeting moment he considered heeding his boss' advice and going to have himself examined by a doctor. But he knew he couldn't do that, not with what he had inside his head.
"Hey! Watch it, buddy," a man on a bicycle barked as he whizzed past. Sanjuro lost his balance, backpedaling until he tripped over a curb and fell to the ground, striking his head on the marble walkway.
Suddenly, the sound stopped. Sanjuro started to shake with relief... after weeks of the same wretched song looping endlessly in his head, drowning out everything else, he could finally hear himself think. He couldn't help but laugh out loud, and then laugh harder still at the crystal clear sound of his own voice. But then a sudden fear grabbed hold of him; how long would this silence last? He cursed himself under his own breath. This was a mess he had created. Everyone had warned him against getting cybernetic implants abroad. Hell, the government even had laws against it - which was why he couldn't go to see a doctor. Doctors were mandatory reporters. Once they scanned him and realized that he had an unlicensed implant, they'd turn him right over to the police. Sanjuro's stomach tightened at the thought of doing time in Fuchu prison.
"Ugh," he groaned, lamenting the mess he'd stepped into. He'd had friends and coworkers who had had cybernetic upgrades and none of them had had any side effects. Those positive experiences had convinced him that it was a good idea to skip across the border while in Hong Kong and get a cheap knock-off implant installed in Shenzhen. He'd save some money and get an upgrade, all while getting paid by his company. It seemed like a win-win.
But within days of returning to Tokyo, the sound had started. He still remembered clearly the first confusing moments as a driving drum beat had swelled in his mind. At first, he had thought he was hearing a ringtone or a loud radio from another room - but then the growling monotone of the singing had started and Sanjuro knew that something was very, very wrong. Sanjuro couldn't speak English very well, he could still recognize the sound of the language and he knew that what he was hearing was an English song. But the dominance of American cultural influence had petered out decades ago, well before Sanjuro was born. Nobody played English songs anymore. Especially songs that sounded so dated. What he had started hearing must have had something to do with the implant that he had just had installed. Somehow, the quack in Shenzhen had installed an implant that played an old American pop song on repeat instead of the auditory upgrade Sanjuro had paid for.
As he thought about his situation, the song started up again; quietly at first, and then building in volume and intensity. Sanjuro clawed at his ears and pulled at his hair. "No!" he screamed in desperation. "I can't take it any longer, I can't listen to this song for another moment!" He cast his gaze about, searching frantically for an escape. His eyes settled on the hectic traffic in the street just a few meters away. Remembering how the sound had stopped when he had struck his head on the ground, Sanjuro grinned to himself grimly.
The words of the song rang in his brain as he darted toward the street: It's time to strike a match and burn it down... Sanjuro had no idea what the words meant, but he knew the strange foreign syllables by rote memory. Screaming to drown out the sound, he launched himself into the road. In the moment that his skull made impact with the gleaming bumper of a speeding vehicle, the sound abruptly stopped and Sanjuro sighed in relief just before his head exploded and his body was shredded to pieces in the frenzied onslaught of traffic.
Deutschland
My blog has been getting a lot of traffic from Germany as of late, so I'd like to say "wie gehts" to all you Germans out there and thank you for stopping by. I hope you're enjoying what you're reading.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Compliance
“I just hate my job,” Kevin sighed.”I just hate being here. I hate the work I do. I hate the people I work with. I hate the color of my office. I hate the smell of the place. I hate the sound of the words that people use to describe the work we do. I just hate every aspect of this place.”
“Just leave,” Chelsea replied. “If you hate it so much, just quit. Don’t come in tomorrow, or ever again.”
“I want to,” Kevin said, grimacing. “But I’m not ready. I haven’t got all my ducks in a row.”
“When will they be in a row?” Chelsea asked.
“Soon, I hope,” Kevin said. “I don’t know how much longer I can stomach this fucking place. Being here sucks the life out of me. It sucks the joy out of living. I know that this is a First World problem. I know other people have it so much worse than I do. But…” He chewed his lip, searching for the words to describe what he was feeling. “I just really hate being here,” he said at last, unable to frame his argument any other way.
“I don’t know,” Chelsea said. “I like this office stuff. I think it’s nice. I like just chilling out in my cube, listening to music and browsing Facebook. It’s a pretty sweet job.”
“But don’t you want more than that?” Kevin asked. “I mean… we come in here, and we trade away our lives for a shitty paycheck. We’re basically giving away our painfully finite time in exchange for an abstraction of value that isn’t even worth that much. We will never ever get our lives back. Every second we spend here is a second gone. It’s a second we could have spent living, enjoying life and the world. Doesn’t that make you sick?”
Chelsea thought for a moment. “Not really. I get paid pretty well. And I’m young, I have a lot of time to move up or change jobs or whatever. You’re young too. Why do you think about all this shit? Just be happy where you are.”
Kevin shook his head. “I can’t be happy,” he said. “I can’t be happy doing this fucking stupid meaningless busy-work for the rest of my life. Think about all the other people, all the older people, and how they’re so fixated on retirement. Remember Joanna? She was going to retire and have this great life. But then she had a stroke two months before retirement and she died. Remember Karen? She was going to travel the world with her husband. But then her husband had a massive heart attack and died before she retired.”
“Yeah, but they were old,” Chelsea said. “We’re young. I’m not even thirty. And you’re only like thirty-three?”
"I’m thirty-four,” Kevin sighed. “But that’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that those people used to be young like us. And they felt the same way as you. But then suddenly they were old, and then they were too old to enjoy life without being chained to a desk. I’ve already been here for seven years. Fuck. Just think of all that I could have done in that seven years. But what have I done instead? I’ve traded away my hours, my life, for a paycheck. I haven’t contributed anything to society. I haven’t done anything.”
“You do compliance work,” Chelsea smiled. “That’s important.”
“Is it?” Kevin said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Think about how much money they spend on all this compliance bullshit. Millions of dollars every quarter gets burned up in the compliance bureaucracy. I haven’t crunched the numbers, but I have a strong suspicion that we spend a lot more on compliance than this company ever lost from researchers misusing funds. It’s fucking stupid. Our compliance work is a joke. We’re leeches, sucking up research dollars that would be better spent fighting cancer or whatever.”
“Just leave then,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes. “I like working here. It’s easy. I get paid well. And I get to take long lunches. I don’t know why you can’t be happy like everyone else.”
“I don’t know either,” Kevin mumbled. “I wish I could, but I just can’t.”
He let her words sink into his brain for a few moments. It was true, everyone else in the office really was happy. They loved their work and believed in what they were doing. Kevin didn’t understand why he couldn’t go with the herd, why he couldn’t love the mindless, meaningless work as much as everyone else. "I really just hate being here,” he said at last. “I need to get the fuck out of here.”
“Just leave,” Chelsea replied. “If you hate it so much, just quit. Don’t come in tomorrow, or ever again.”
“I want to,” Kevin said, grimacing. “But I’m not ready. I haven’t got all my ducks in a row.”
“When will they be in a row?” Chelsea asked.
“Soon, I hope,” Kevin said. “I don’t know how much longer I can stomach this fucking place. Being here sucks the life out of me. It sucks the joy out of living. I know that this is a First World problem. I know other people have it so much worse than I do. But…” He chewed his lip, searching for the words to describe what he was feeling. “I just really hate being here,” he said at last, unable to frame his argument any other way.
“I don’t know,” Chelsea said. “I like this office stuff. I think it’s nice. I like just chilling out in my cube, listening to music and browsing Facebook. It’s a pretty sweet job.”
“But don’t you want more than that?” Kevin asked. “I mean… we come in here, and we trade away our lives for a shitty paycheck. We’re basically giving away our painfully finite time in exchange for an abstraction of value that isn’t even worth that much. We will never ever get our lives back. Every second we spend here is a second gone. It’s a second we could have spent living, enjoying life and the world. Doesn’t that make you sick?”
Chelsea thought for a moment. “Not really. I get paid pretty well. And I’m young, I have a lot of time to move up or change jobs or whatever. You’re young too. Why do you think about all this shit? Just be happy where you are.”
Kevin shook his head. “I can’t be happy,” he said. “I can’t be happy doing this fucking stupid meaningless busy-work for the rest of my life. Think about all the other people, all the older people, and how they’re so fixated on retirement. Remember Joanna? She was going to retire and have this great life. But then she had a stroke two months before retirement and she died. Remember Karen? She was going to travel the world with her husband. But then her husband had a massive heart attack and died before she retired.”
“Yeah, but they were old,” Chelsea said. “We’re young. I’m not even thirty. And you’re only like thirty-three?”
"I’m thirty-four,” Kevin sighed. “But that’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that those people used to be young like us. And they felt the same way as you. But then suddenly they were old, and then they were too old to enjoy life without being chained to a desk. I’ve already been here for seven years. Fuck. Just think of all that I could have done in that seven years. But what have I done instead? I’ve traded away my hours, my life, for a paycheck. I haven’t contributed anything to society. I haven’t done anything.”
“You do compliance work,” Chelsea smiled. “That’s important.”
“Is it?” Kevin said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Think about how much money they spend on all this compliance bullshit. Millions of dollars every quarter gets burned up in the compliance bureaucracy. I haven’t crunched the numbers, but I have a strong suspicion that we spend a lot more on compliance than this company ever lost from researchers misusing funds. It’s fucking stupid. Our compliance work is a joke. We’re leeches, sucking up research dollars that would be better spent fighting cancer or whatever.”
“Just leave then,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes. “I like working here. It’s easy. I get paid well. And I get to take long lunches. I don’t know why you can’t be happy like everyone else.”
“I don’t know either,” Kevin mumbled. “I wish I could, but I just can’t.”
He let her words sink into his brain for a few moments. It was true, everyone else in the office really was happy. They loved their work and believed in what they were doing. Kevin didn’t understand why he couldn’t go with the herd, why he couldn’t love the mindless, meaningless work as much as everyone else. "I really just hate being here,” he said at last. “I need to get the fuck out of here.”
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