20150806
20150805
Riveta - Summer's Recollection
"I met Riveta once before, a long time ago when I was just a kid, but I guess she didn't recognize me or didn't want to remember," Summer said into the mic. "She was a cop then; I guess she is still a cop but one can't be too sure these days. Oh, it can drive one person out of your mind if not attuned to these things. Riveta is a very beautiful woman; she's smart, intelligent and she's got the right amount of sass."
She hit pause after a few awkward moments of silence as she was trying to compile the words in her head to speak. Setting the mic down on the blanket, she took a sip of the coffee and she closed her eyes as if recalling an event or image in her mind's eye.
Twin moons hung low in the sky with a third one phasing in and out, like a UHF tv station that her grandfather once had. She remembered her father standing outside toying with the antenna as her grandmother was shouting "a little to the left, a little more, there it is".
She smiled a sincere smile and then picked up the mic once again, thinking there should be one more, or was it two moons, she wasn't sure herself.
She hit pause after a few awkward moments of silence as she was trying to compile the words in her head to speak. Setting the mic down on the blanket, she took a sip of the coffee and she closed her eyes as if recalling an event or image in her mind's eye.
Twin moons hung low in the sky with a third one phasing in and out, like a UHF tv station that her grandfather once had. She remembered her father standing outside toying with the antenna as her grandmother was shouting "a little to the left, a little more, there it is".
She smiled a sincere smile and then picked up the mic once again, thinking there should be one more, or was it two moons, she wasn't sure herself.
20150804
"On The Road To Find Out" [version.Upgrade]
"It's a combination of psychoanalysis, cognitive behavioural techniques, Grofian holotropic breathwork, Celtic paganism, and Taoist sorcery. Sessions can run from an hour to three, usually no more than once every two weeks, maybe more often if the person is struggling. It's formal but fluid, like a martial art I suppose."
Max sipped his tea. "Are you accepting new patients?"
Callan smiled. "Now that would be a conflict-of-interest, but you know that."
Max smiled. "Who said it was for me? Are you suggesting I need some therapy?"
Callan smiled too and looked at Max. Max held his gaze. Their banter was a script, they both knew it, the rote exchanges that people performed almost unconsciously, but when two experts at communication were involved the artifice of it all was too apparent.
Callan was anticipating Max commenting that it seemed as if Callan was trying to prove himself, justify his new career path, and he had his argument ready, about the merits of slow and graceful change rather than the sound and fury of their action-adventure exploits, about supporting individuals in gentle ways, about how real change and real healing was a long process.
Except Callan also knew that Max knew a comment like that could sound like a judgement, and that Max liked to pretend or at least perform that he was very non-judgmental. And furthermore, that by insisting Callan had nothing to prove Max would be implicitly positioning himself as the authority even as he explicitly denied the role.
And Callan was also acknowledging that part of him did feel as if he had to prove himself, to validate this new approach to the kind of work that they had all been doing for so long; and Callan knew that his relationship with Max was in many ways a manifestation of that dynamic within himself, that Max was in some sense a spirit he had summoned into his life to challenge him and push him to be better.
Callan knew too that Max knew all of this, and that Max was at the very same moment wondering if he should make the comment about Callan proving himself and if doing so would somehow prove that everything Callan was thinking was true.
And somewhere within the swirling, tangled mesh of subtext and near-telepathic mutual understanding was the mystery of what Max really did think about Callan becoming a practicing psychologist... And what Callan really thought about what Max thought...
They both sipped their tea.
Max sipped his tea. "Are you accepting new patients?"
Callan smiled. "Now that would be a conflict-of-interest, but you know that."
Max smiled. "Who said it was for me? Are you suggesting I need some therapy?"
Callan smiled too and looked at Max. Max held his gaze. Their banter was a script, they both knew it, the rote exchanges that people performed almost unconsciously, but when two experts at communication were involved the artifice of it all was too apparent.
Callan was anticipating Max commenting that it seemed as if Callan was trying to prove himself, justify his new career path, and he had his argument ready, about the merits of slow and graceful change rather than the sound and fury of their action-adventure exploits, about supporting individuals in gentle ways, about how real change and real healing was a long process.
Except Callan also knew that Max knew a comment like that could sound like a judgement, and that Max liked to pretend or at least perform that he was very non-judgmental. And furthermore, that by insisting Callan had nothing to prove Max would be implicitly positioning himself as the authority even as he explicitly denied the role.
And Callan was also acknowledging that part of him did feel as if he had to prove himself, to validate this new approach to the kind of work that they had all been doing for so long; and Callan knew that his relationship with Max was in many ways a manifestation of that dynamic within himself, that Max was in some sense a spirit he had summoned into his life to challenge him and push him to be better.
Callan knew too that Max knew all of this, and that Max was at the very same moment wondering if he should make the comment about Callan proving himself and if doing so would somehow prove that everything Callan was thinking was true.
And somewhere within the swirling, tangled mesh of subtext and near-telepathic mutual understanding was the mystery of what Max really did think about Callan becoming a practicing psychologist... And what Callan really thought about what Max thought...
They both sipped their tea.
20150803
The Way of the Dragon
The street plays at angles, documentary style,
a composite and a surveillance.
Faces in the ideas of images begin to appear
and reappear, feels like seeing shapes in clouds,
patterns in the wind, the apprehension of a vast conspiracy.
These beautiful faces you see
young no matter their biology,
abducted and raised in utopian theories and released,
burdened with every tale, every tale to them
a history and a precognition.
They have all the allowances granted by
all the world's mythologies.
They are to be revered and feared and allowed
as artists, burdened with the need to tell every tale for themselves,
to be allowed the chance to tell every tale for themselves.
Encounters will be subtle at first.
Imagine watching a movie, late night television,
when the moon has come and swallowed the light
and the population and the noise, like a trance.
That sound coming from the kitchen, that erratic and faint sound,
could be them and the beginnings of contact.
Or the wait for your friend to answer the door
after you've knocked, an erratic sound.
These ways to give you pause or make you attend.
They will come like this.
They will come like love, cloaked in glamours,
appear in the possibility of love.
Like looking into her eyes, across the crowded room
and the subjectivities and histories, and holding the gaze,
and suddenly your thoughts have rhythm and purpose,
as an actor making dialogue live.
The desperation and desire condensed into such a fragility of biology,
this meeting of eyes, the mathematics of the moment
like an equation of astronomy, something improbably but powerful.
a composite and a surveillance.
Faces in the ideas of images begin to appear
and reappear, feels like seeing shapes in clouds,
patterns in the wind, the apprehension of a vast conspiracy.
These beautiful faces you see
young no matter their biology,
abducted and raised in utopian theories and released,
burdened with every tale, every tale to them
a history and a precognition.
They have all the allowances granted by
all the world's mythologies.
They are to be revered and feared and allowed
as artists, burdened with the need to tell every tale for themselves,
to be allowed the chance to tell every tale for themselves.
Encounters will be subtle at first.
Imagine watching a movie, late night television,
when the moon has come and swallowed the light
and the population and the noise, like a trance.
That sound coming from the kitchen, that erratic and faint sound,
could be them and the beginnings of contact.
Or the wait for your friend to answer the door
after you've knocked, an erratic sound.
These ways to give you pause or make you attend.
They will come like this.
They will come like love, cloaked in glamours,
appear in the possibility of love.
Like looking into her eyes, across the crowded room
and the subjectivities and histories, and holding the gaze,
and suddenly your thoughts have rhythm and purpose,
as an actor making dialogue live.
The desperation and desire condensed into such a fragility of biology,
this meeting of eyes, the mathematics of the moment
like an equation of astronomy, something improbably but powerful.
20150801
Dropping The Jigsaw
The kids call it dropping the jigsaw. I call it one hell of a clusterfuck but that's the military training coming out. I really don't know what the mess is to begin with but I guess it snowballed into one hell of a shitstorm.
Well, you know that kid who lived three doors down? He was a quiet, shy one that played tons of videos games. I thought I would read his name in the paper one of these days as someone who just "went off". Strange huh? He had that aura about him. Which is a strange hue to begin with, but oh well, time would tell, I guess.
This kid cruised by on a huge motorcycle this morning, which was pretty freakin' weird since he looked like he'd put on several pounds as well as lots of tattoos. Tons of em all over his body and I was like what the hell? So, I go over to his parents and knock on the door to inquire what was going on and some young stoned girl answered and I asked to see Mr. Harboch.
The biker kid shows up and I asked about his dad and the fellow told me that his father had passed on years ago. And I was like what the heck man, I was just chatting with him the other day over the BBQ and a beer. The kid looked at me strangely and shut the door. That's when I saw that the neighbourhood I had lived in was all changed; grittier, darker like a Quentin Tarantino movie.
What is going on?
This kid cruised by on a huge motorcycle this morning, which was pretty freakin' weird since he looked like he'd put on several pounds as well as lots of tattoos. Tons of em all over his body and I was like what the hell? So, I go over to his parents and knock on the door to inquire what was going on and some young stoned girl answered and I asked to see Mr. Harboch.
The biker kid shows up and I asked about his dad and the fellow told me that his father had passed on years ago. And I was like what the heck man, I was just chatting with him the other day over the BBQ and a beer. The kid looked at me strangely and shut the door. That's when I saw that the neighbourhood I had lived in was all changed; grittier, darker like a Quentin Tarantino movie.
What is going on?
20150731
> Chance in Plureality 7
He came to in a field. The sounds of tires on asphalt floated by with the Doppler effect. He rubbed his eyes and crawled out of the tall grass. He felt like being drunk, from the glass of water's point of view. He was actually starting to get used to it now. Balance was always hard to maintain though and he fell into the orange doors of the storage lockers.
Find an identity... Pretend. The usual course. Weather the shift.
Reaching up he grabbed at the lock on the shutter door. Someone didn't fully close it... Either that or reality was throwing him a bone. Dropping the lock to the ground he reeled the door upwards.
Stumbling over some worn faux-leather recliners, he squeezed himself between a propped up mattress and reached for the brown boxes in the back. Boxes held parts of people's lives, he knew. Stored away the trinkets that held memories, these time capsules of sorts.
He dug through quickly. Not wanting to handle too much at once. He'd come to realize across shifts that during these "calibration" moments he could take on the memories stored in objects. He wasn't sure if this was some sort of fallout, or if this is what the Angel and Demon wanted him to be doing.
It was a blessing and a curse at the same time. He could hide from the sweeper teams, those seeking the reality deviants, this way. You blend in properly they look right past you. They scan your mind, and if you happen to be carrying enough hijacked memory from someone they might just overlook you.
It's hard taking on someone else's life though. You don't always have the understanding you need to fully adapt. You've got fractions of the whole... And if you're not careful... You impale yourself on the sharp end of the stick of their pain.
Rummaging through the boxes Keane picked up his new identity... A writer... Struggling apparently. Lost... Self-destructive... A small red box he lifted sent a jolt of loss. A woman with red hair. Brilliant smile... Miles away. He dropped it with a pained cry.
Sudden spurt of rage and the box shoots out into the night air, its contents scattering along the gravel. Opening the new box, digging frantically. A jacket, worn beaten leather. Shrugging the mantel on the memories dug in. Sore feet. Vacant highways. Wanderlust.
Then he saw the phone... These little computers held so much of a person these days. Calibration was nearing its end... He grabbed the phone. A different woman's face now. A hollow feeling now. But a goal... Hear her voice... Even though he's never heard it himself. The memories he'd stolen were there... But memory wouldn't do this time... It wasn't as simple as hiding from the sweepers this time... He had to find this woman... It was going to be dangerous, it wasn't going to make sense... These weren't his memories. This wasn't his life... But this one held a key, he knew it.
Keane crawled back out of the locker, over the pile of scattered contents, and headed for the highway, down a road he had never walked, but one his stolen memories knew.
Find an identity... Pretend. The usual course. Weather the shift.
Reaching up he grabbed at the lock on the shutter door. Someone didn't fully close it... Either that or reality was throwing him a bone. Dropping the lock to the ground he reeled the door upwards.
Stumbling over some worn faux-leather recliners, he squeezed himself between a propped up mattress and reached for the brown boxes in the back. Boxes held parts of people's lives, he knew. Stored away the trinkets that held memories, these time capsules of sorts.
He dug through quickly. Not wanting to handle too much at once. He'd come to realize across shifts that during these "calibration" moments he could take on the memories stored in objects. He wasn't sure if this was some sort of fallout, or if this is what the Angel and Demon wanted him to be doing.
It was a blessing and a curse at the same time. He could hide from the sweeper teams, those seeking the reality deviants, this way. You blend in properly they look right past you. They scan your mind, and if you happen to be carrying enough hijacked memory from someone they might just overlook you.
It's hard taking on someone else's life though. You don't always have the understanding you need to fully adapt. You've got fractions of the whole... And if you're not careful... You impale yourself on the sharp end of the stick of their pain.
Rummaging through the boxes Keane picked up his new identity... A writer... Struggling apparently. Lost... Self-destructive... A small red box he lifted sent a jolt of loss. A woman with red hair. Brilliant smile... Miles away. He dropped it with a pained cry.
Sudden spurt of rage and the box shoots out into the night air, its contents scattering along the gravel. Opening the new box, digging frantically. A jacket, worn beaten leather. Shrugging the mantel on the memories dug in. Sore feet. Vacant highways. Wanderlust.
Then he saw the phone... These little computers held so much of a person these days. Calibration was nearing its end... He grabbed the phone. A different woman's face now. A hollow feeling now. But a goal... Hear her voice... Even though he's never heard it himself. The memories he'd stolen were there... But memory wouldn't do this time... It wasn't as simple as hiding from the sweepers this time... He had to find this woman... It was going to be dangerous, it wasn't going to make sense... These weren't his memories. This wasn't his life... But this one held a key, he knew it.
Keane crawled back out of the locker, over the pile of scattered contents, and headed for the highway, down a road he had never walked, but one his stolen memories knew.
20150729
"Who Prophesize With Your Pen" [version.Upgrade]
"But you don't get to punch anybody," Max said with a smirk.
Wraith laughed. Warmly, not wickedly. Max blinked.
"You look surprised," she said. "I meant it when I said it."
"I believed you, I did." He took a sip of wine, the candlelight reflecting in the liquid, refracting in the glass. "I guess... I guess out of everyone I never thought 'happy' was a version you'd wear. Or that if you had to, you'd at least be unhappy about it."
Wraith kept smiling as the waiter cleared their salad plates and began serving the main course. "Maybe you never really knew me all that well," she said. "Or maybe you knew me the best, I could never be sure."
The chef of the restaurant had appeared on a Reality TV show that Max used to watch; he was excited to try the dish. He was thinking about what Wraith had said.
She started eating. They finished the meal in silence, but it was comfortable.
After dessert she said, "You thought Dexter and I might end up married, raising a family in a small town somewhere. Or you wanted us to - and maybe in some version out there we did - but in most versions it's not about happy, it's about the work."
Max nodded. "You're working now," he said, glancing at the other well-dressed patrons.
"The couple by the window overlooking the harbour; the CEO of a transnational corporation and the ambassador of a relatively small but controversial dictatorship. Their second meeting this month. By the end of the next I will have gathered enough information to publish an expose that will do them both a decent amount of damage for the rest of the year. No, it's not as dramatic as infiltrating their hotels and assassinating them, but..."
"No, I understand."
"Besides Max, you were the one who convinced me that writing was a way to make magic happen."
Wraith laughed. Warmly, not wickedly. Max blinked.
"You look surprised," she said. "I meant it when I said it."
"I believed you, I did." He took a sip of wine, the candlelight reflecting in the liquid, refracting in the glass. "I guess... I guess out of everyone I never thought 'happy' was a version you'd wear. Or that if you had to, you'd at least be unhappy about it."
Wraith kept smiling as the waiter cleared their salad plates and began serving the main course. "Maybe you never really knew me all that well," she said. "Or maybe you knew me the best, I could never be sure."
The chef of the restaurant had appeared on a Reality TV show that Max used to watch; he was excited to try the dish. He was thinking about what Wraith had said.
She started eating. They finished the meal in silence, but it was comfortable.
After dessert she said, "You thought Dexter and I might end up married, raising a family in a small town somewhere. Or you wanted us to - and maybe in some version out there we did - but in most versions it's not about happy, it's about the work."
Max nodded. "You're working now," he said, glancing at the other well-dressed patrons.
"The couple by the window overlooking the harbour; the CEO of a transnational corporation and the ambassador of a relatively small but controversial dictatorship. Their second meeting this month. By the end of the next I will have gathered enough information to publish an expose that will do them both a decent amount of damage for the rest of the year. No, it's not as dramatic as infiltrating their hotels and assassinating them, but..."
"No, I understand."
"Besides Max, you were the one who convinced me that writing was a way to make magic happen."
20150728
A Look Into The Mind
A Look Into The Mind Of Someone Who Lost Theirs
by Hank Markins
Press Syndicate (National)
June, 6, 2001
When patients were committed to the Morganfokker Asylum for the Mentally Unstable in Upstate New York they arrived with little belongings; a rucksack, or backpack, or even a suitcase jammed packed with their only possessions they ever had with them. It's sad to say that most of those who entered Morganfokker Asylum never left.
The mental hospital had an average stay between 20 - 25 years. So, when patients passed on they were buried in graves in a cemetery adjoining the institution. Their possessions were then locked away and forgotten over time.
In May of 1994 Morganfokker Asylum was closed due to a fire that broke out in ward three. The fire spread quickly and gutted out the wing.
It wasn't until 2000 when the now-closed institute was bought and is now being renovated in condominiums. It's when the workers discovered several items; rucksacks, suitcases, notebooks and other trinkets stored away in a locked basement file-room.
In all a total of 333 boxes were found that were left behind. Unclaimed and lost in time.
Allison Ellen is cataloging each box and it's opening a window into the lives - and the minds - of the people deemed too unwell to be allowed in society. Ellen is a local historian and her job is putting the pieces of the past together.
"It's interesting indeed," Ms. Ellen said. "Unlocking history and discovering the lives of those who were admitted into this asylum. Abandoned by their loved ones and left to waste away in this place."
Ellen finds a box marked; Khoob, Maxmilliam H. The contents inside are: a small Mickey Mouse alarm clock, a Commander Cody Signet Ring, a deck of playing cards - with weird sigils drawn on the face cards as if some sign of Tarot, three small tumblers each with a scratch at varied levels and the words 'Ok Now' etched beside them, a picture torn from a King James Illustrated Bible showing an angel hovering over the sky with her arms outstretched and written below her Magriel, a key ring with 33 keys on it - each a different colour and several with various shades of them, a medic alert bracelet, three passports and several newspaper clippings of various recipes from different newspapers.
Ellen goes on to say that there is no record of this Maximillian H. Khoob and it's not sure if he had left on his own accord or in a pine box.
Ellen admits that the records could of been destroyed in the fire that gutted out a ward.
by Hank Markins
Press Syndicate (National)
June, 6, 2001
When patients were committed to the Morganfokker Asylum for the Mentally Unstable in Upstate New York they arrived with little belongings; a rucksack, or backpack, or even a suitcase jammed packed with their only possessions they ever had with them. It's sad to say that most of those who entered Morganfokker Asylum never left.
The mental hospital had an average stay between 20 - 25 years. So, when patients passed on they were buried in graves in a cemetery adjoining the institution. Their possessions were then locked away and forgotten over time.
In May of 1994 Morganfokker Asylum was closed due to a fire that broke out in ward three. The fire spread quickly and gutted out the wing.
It wasn't until 2000 when the now-closed institute was bought and is now being renovated in condominiums. It's when the workers discovered several items; rucksacks, suitcases, notebooks and other trinkets stored away in a locked basement file-room.
In all a total of 333 boxes were found that were left behind. Unclaimed and lost in time.
Allison Ellen is cataloging each box and it's opening a window into the lives - and the minds - of the people deemed too unwell to be allowed in society. Ellen is a local historian and her job is putting the pieces of the past together.
"It's interesting indeed," Ms. Ellen said. "Unlocking history and discovering the lives of those who were admitted into this asylum. Abandoned by their loved ones and left to waste away in this place."
Ellen finds a box marked; Khoob, Maxmilliam H. The contents inside are: a small Mickey Mouse alarm clock, a Commander Cody Signet Ring, a deck of playing cards - with weird sigils drawn on the face cards as if some sign of Tarot, three small tumblers each with a scratch at varied levels and the words 'Ok Now' etched beside them, a picture torn from a King James Illustrated Bible showing an angel hovering over the sky with her arms outstretched and written below her Magriel, a key ring with 33 keys on it - each a different colour and several with various shades of them, a medic alert bracelet, three passports and several newspaper clippings of various recipes from different newspapers.
Ellen goes on to say that there is no record of this Maximillian H. Khoob and it's not sure if he had left on his own accord or in a pine box.
Ellen admits that the records could of been destroyed in the fire that gutted out a ward.
20150727
Dictation Vacation - Summer's Recollection
Summer watched the stars appear in the evening sky one by one as if someone was pricking holes in the fabric. Venus and Mars appeared near the crescent moon in the heavens above. The waves lapping on the shore gave her a sense of calm and serenity, something that she needed after the events that had happened.
A lone gull called out in the night and she was shaken from her daydreaming.
A lone gull called out in the night and she was shaken from her daydreaming.
She continued dictating into the tape recorder.
"It feels dream-like at times. More like the sensation one feels after waking up from a dream and their mind is trying to sweep the dream away so the brain can focus on the tasks at hand; get up, go to the bathroom, make the coffee, the dull day-to-day things we do and take for granted.
"The girl they called Tatter... Well, I don't know if she really was a girl at that - she was trans, but that's not what I mean: transgirls are girls... I mean that she was alien-esque in nature, was rather strange and unique. She had the appearance of a teen but it seemed like a mask she had on. Though you could see the illusion if you looked at her through the corner of your eye."
"It feels dream-like at times. More like the sensation one feels after waking up from a dream and their mind is trying to sweep the dream away so the brain can focus on the tasks at hand; get up, go to the bathroom, make the coffee, the dull day-to-day things we do and take for granted.
"The girl they called Tatter... Well, I don't know if she really was a girl at that - she was trans, but that's not what I mean: transgirls are girls... I mean that she was alien-esque in nature, was rather strange and unique. She had the appearance of a teen but it seemed like a mask she had on. Though you could see the illusion if you looked at her through the corner of your eye."
20150725
Incident Report A-2271
INCIDENT REPORT ALPHA NUMERIC TWO TWO SEVEN ONE
SUBJECT: INFRACTURE REBOOT
STATUS: IN PROCESS
OUTCOME: STILL UNKNOWN
TO: ------------------------
IN THE PROCESS OF ELIMINATIONS ONE CANNOT FULLY COMPREHEND THE BALANCE THE HAPPENS TO EVEN THINGS OUT. TO EVERY TIMELINE THAT ERASES SEVERAL MORE SPRING UP.
THIS PHENOMENON IS STRANGE AND WE HAVEN'T FACTORED IN --------------- ------------------- ---------- OR EVEN ---------------------------------------- ------------- BUT ONE THING THAT REMAINS IS ONE THING AND THAT IS ---------------------------
END OF REPORT
----------------------------------
MANANA F
20150723
"Things'll Get Brighter" [version.Upgrade]
Max looked around the classroom, movie posters on the walls, quotes from Toni Morrison on the chalkboard. The sound of the students playing in the yard; recess on a sunny, spring day.
"It's great, Dex," he said.
Dexter leaned back in the chair behind the desk at the front of the room. Smiled and nodded. He had let his hair grow in; it made him look a little younger. Maybe he was younger, somehow, this time.
Max perched on the edge of one of the student's desks, looked at his longtime ally. His friend?
"This wasn't a shift, was it? You chose this, made it happen."
Dexter nodded again. "I got too tired of too many folks with the same skin colour as me getting killed by too many folks with the same badge as me."
"Well, you've taught me a lot over the years; might as well share. They're lucky to have you."
"Thanks, Max. When I'm not at school I do a lot of community organizing, activist-type stuff."
"Those protests at the new LEGACY site downtown?"
Dexter smiled.
"It's great, Dex," he said.
Dexter leaned back in the chair behind the desk at the front of the room. Smiled and nodded. He had let his hair grow in; it made him look a little younger. Maybe he was younger, somehow, this time.
Max perched on the edge of one of the student's desks, looked at his longtime ally. His friend?
"This wasn't a shift, was it? You chose this, made it happen."
Dexter nodded again. "I got too tired of too many folks with the same skin colour as me getting killed by too many folks with the same badge as me."
"Well, you've taught me a lot over the years; might as well share. They're lucky to have you."
"Thanks, Max. When I'm not at school I do a lot of community organizing, activist-type stuff."
"Those protests at the new LEGACY site downtown?"
Dexter smiled.
20150721
A Night At The Lab
Max stepped out of the car and walked around to the entrance as he tossed the keys to a young fellow rushing up to pull the car into a private lot. Max opened to door for Maggie who was dressed to kill in a red Baroness Lumiche dress with a dazzling necklace by Ammon Pryce that cost as much as a small nation.
Max looked spiffy in his Hugo Nass suit, diamond cufflinks and tie pin as well. His $3000 hairstyle didn't even budge in the slight breeze. Glancing at him one would think that he was a dead ringer for that 80's icon, Max Headroom.
"Max over here!" he could hear the ladies calling him. All with fPhones ready to snap a picture of him and flood the intrawebs sites like Fall'n, Tweetie and Novelhead. His agent said it was golden to be snapped up around town and his ratings would hit the roof, making his brand even more known.
Tonight was the opening of the hottest club in town, The Lab, owned by Morganfokker Productions and catering to the filthy rich and lavishing luxury. The place was going to be all over the news in the morning...
Max looked spiffy in his Hugo Nass suit, diamond cufflinks and tie pin as well. His $3000 hairstyle didn't even budge in the slight breeze. Glancing at him one would think that he was a dead ringer for that 80's icon, Max Headroom.
"Max over here!" he could hear the ladies calling him. All with fPhones ready to snap a picture of him and flood the intrawebs sites like Fall'n, Tweetie and Novelhead. His agent said it was golden to be snapped up around town and his ratings would hit the roof, making his brand even more known.
Tonight was the opening of the hottest club in town, The Lab, owned by Morganfokker Productions and catering to the filthy rich and lavishing luxury. The place was going to be all over the news in the morning...
20150720
A Recollection Of A Reflection - Summer's Recollection
Summer sat on the bluff overlooking the sea, enjoying the gentle breeze as it caressed her skin and whisked her hair about. The sun was setting upon the horizon which painted the sky with a reddish glow which reminded her of a Bloody Mary.
She poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos beside her and took a sip.
She then placed the cup down and picked up the mic of the cassette recorder and pressed the play and record button at the same time. She could see the wheels of the cassette moving which told her that she could speak. She brought the mic up to her mouth and let out a breath.
"I don't have anything else to add, since the events beforehand are just jumbled fragments of memories. Did any of it happen? I couldn't tell you. It felt real, it felt dream-like, it felt like images on a silver screen projected before my eyes."
She paused for a few moments, letting the wheels spin away, dragging the fabric of tape before she brought the mic up once again.
"I'm convinced of whatever happened and the world keeps spinning. I'm grateful to the powers that be that opened my eyes to the frailty of what is real and what is truth. I'm only making this recording of what happened as a personal journal, a record of events that happened and now the traces have been wiped away by the Monitors of Time. Who knows, maybe when the next time someone presses play on this thing all they will get is static..."
She poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos beside her and took a sip.
She then placed the cup down and picked up the mic of the cassette recorder and pressed the play and record button at the same time. She could see the wheels of the cassette moving which told her that she could speak. She brought the mic up to her mouth and let out a breath.
"I don't have anything else to add, since the events beforehand are just jumbled fragments of memories. Did any of it happen? I couldn't tell you. It felt real, it felt dream-like, it felt like images on a silver screen projected before my eyes."
She paused for a few moments, letting the wheels spin away, dragging the fabric of tape before she brought the mic up once again.
"I'm convinced of whatever happened and the world keeps spinning. I'm grateful to the powers that be that opened my eyes to the frailty of what is real and what is truth. I'm only making this recording of what happened as a personal journal, a record of events that happened and now the traces have been wiped away by the Monitors of Time. Who knows, maybe when the next time someone presses play on this thing all they will get is static..."
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