Terminal

Accessing the memories of subject Jacob Green, hereafter referred to as Jake, proved to be harder than anticipated, as a direct result of the advanced state of deterioration present in his cerebral cortex. We have, however, been able to recover most of the data leading up to the events under investigation with only minor losses. Please note that since the data capturing nodes were only implanted after the subject's hospitalization, we only have access to thoughts and memories accessed after that time.

Today is his last day on Earth, but nobody seems to care. Throughout the week he hadn't mentioned the fact to anybody, but he is sure they know. How could they not? He had talked about today a lot with most of them, and he can't imagine something as big as this just slipping any of their minds.

Lying on his bed in a private and guarded room in a secure wing of one of the finest hospitals owned and operated by The Company, he thinks back to that fateful day, remembering the instant that he had seen all his hopes and dreams turn to dust.

When he first got the test results back, he couldn't believe his eyes, but it was right there on his screen. There were hundreds of pages of medical data which meant nothing to him, the summation of which amounted to two pages. But in his untrained mind there was only one word that meant anything. That one little word that anybody inclined to living on earth fear the most: Terminal.

While he knows that it has been six months, the intervening time somehow felt both like days and decades. Of course his time in the Company hospital has been made as comfortable as possible, he is brought only the best food, he has all the privacy he can reasonably expect, and most important of all, he is allowed and frequently has visitors. But even the most comfortable hospital in the world still feels like a prison when you're not allowed to leave. His eyes stare at the wall unseeing as he remembers the rest of that fateful day.

He sent an urgent message to his private physician along with a copy of the report, hoping that there had been some mistake, that maybe, just maybe there was some little part of his immune system that could prevent this from happening. But the reply made it very clear to him that there was none. The Company doctors never make such elementary mistakes. With his slim hope crushed, he was devastated.

He stumbled out of his office in a daze, not bothering to reply or even acknowledge that he heard any of the surprised questions following him down the hallway. Somehow he made it out of the building, still ignoring what had become startled questions that dared not follow him outside. He found himself crossing the street and entering the bar, thinking that he would just have a drink or two to occupy his hands while his mind tried to take in the damning information. The drink or two turned into another drink or two and so on, until eventually he was forced to leave the bar on account of being late for work the following morning.

He walked into his office building reeking of alcohol, his clothes disheveled far beyond the acceptable limits detailed in the Company Handbook for New Employees, and firmly tendered his resignation, punctuating it by applying the full force of his fist to the chin of his supervisor. Pausing only for a cup of coffee he made his way out again. But it was to no avail, before he could even get to reception he felt his communicator vibrate, letting him know that a message had just come through. He decided to ignore it until he could get home to a shower and some sleep.

Back at his home, a day or two of recovering from the mother of all hangovers later, he read the message. It was, as he had thought, only a reminder of what every man woman and child on earth already knew. The words flashing in friendly green letters told him that The Company did not in fact hire employees, but drafted anybody of their choosing for twenty years of compulsory service. All sanctioned by the Global Charter of 2140, as kind repayment for their services during the second world civil war. “More like the world government weaseling out of footing the gigantic bill they couldn’t afford to pay.” He thought bitterly. And since he had only been in the employ of The Company for six months, they regretted to inform him that his request for resignation was declined. It also informed him that given his special circumstances, he would be granted four months leave in order to sort things out before he would need to report to the hospital, all on Company expense of course.

So he took some time and made up a list of things he had always wanted to do, but for various reasons had never gotten around to. He knew exactly how much time he had left, at least science has advanced that much, and had spent a flurry of days and weeks pursuing every item on that list.

Money was no longer an object, besides; even if it was his own money he was pretty sure that he wouldn't need it where he was going. By the time four months had passed, he had made a neat little tick next to each item on his list excepting one. These included, but were not limited to:
1. Finally have sex with that brunette in accounting.
2. Spend a week on a beach on an island without a single Company billboard in sight.
3. Jump out of a plane without a gravitational polarizer, using a parachute instead.
4. Purchase and read an antique book, one made from actual paper.
5. Learn to cook real food, without resorting to replicators for convenience.
6. Figure out just what the hell Bob Dylan was singing about*

By the time all but one of the items on his list had received a neat little tick, he realized that he only had two months left. He had to report to the hospital where he would be taken care of for the remainder of his time on Earth.

He thinks to himself “I guess Bob Dylan will have to be deciphered some other time” Just then he hears somebody enter his room, and looks up hopefully, expecting to see a friendly face, here to see him off. Seeing that it is only a Company doctor, no doubt only here to check on all the various tubes feeding numerous drugs into his system, the half formed smile leaves his lips. The drugs are administered to make things easier on him. At first he had resisted, and had refused them, but after one particularly descriptive Company doctor had made him aware of exactly what it would be like without them he saw reason. He tries to imagine how badly it must have hurt in the days before they were perfected, but fails. Still dumbfounded that nobody has come he turns back inwards, finding solace in his memories, and drifts off to sleep.

Upon opening his eyes, he sees that he is surrounded, every person he thinks of as either friend or relative is here, and each one has a look of concern. It is his last day on Earth, of course they care. He finds out that the Company has kept them all busy for most of the day with informational seminars and counseling sessions. He spends two hours laughing and talking amidst the general hubbub, and then a few minutes in private with each, to say good bye.

A Company doctor who was waiting discretely just outside the door comes in after the last of the visitors leaves, administers a sedative, and disconnects all the machines and tubes. Jake's eyes close for the last time on Earth.

Records show that the subject was then taken to the private Company spaceport housed in a different part of the facility, successfully put into cryogenic compartment number 5B on the transport vessel Unity. The drugs had prepared him perfectly for the process, even if they did make him feel ill for months prior to his trip. The Unity made good time, automated guidance systems steering it at the speed of light, and arrived at the correct destination one hundred and thirty two years later. The subject was then revived successfully along with ninety seven percent of the other people sent to colonize the newly terraformed planet Terminal.

* Note: we were puzzled at item number six on the list, and upon investigation it was found that Bob Dylan was an artist who composed and performed classical music back in the twentieth century. How the subject came upon such unusual musical tastes remain unclear.

sounds like jogging...

is anybody out there actually interested in hearing what little old me has to say about things? i think not, but i won't let that stop me. in fact, that might just give me the needed confidence to blog, and to blog truthfully. don't we all sing at our loudest in the shower when we think nobody is around to hear?

Incomprehensible






If life is breath
And breaths are words
And a picture paints a thousand
immortality lies in taking deep breaths
and exhaling enough large words
to paint at least one picture a day

if being in a picture captures a part of one’s soul
condemning you to certain damnation
then don’t talk about yourself too much,
or you will paint a revealing picture of yourself

paint a clear picture
think about the meaning of each part
understand that not everybody
will see the core of your art
and if the meaning of the picture
is not clear for all to see…
then it will not hold their attention
and your words,
your picture,
will fade away.

This is me

just one of my poems to start off with

smile


What seems to me to be the start
of just another wasted day,
could be something else entirely…
it could be the end of a life
it could be the start of one too

speed seems important
but only for a while
then I remember
her loving smile

nothing else makes sense
nothing is quite as clear
there’s nothing I wouldn’t give
to have her with me here

haste goes out the window
only patience perseveres
and with the coming of dawn
all doubt disappears