Category: Storytelling

Flash Fiction February Day 7

On By WinstonIn Creativity, fiction, Flash Fiction February, homelessness, Society, Storytelling, Technology, Virtual Reality, writingLeave a comment

The Residence

“Welcome to The Residence!”, declaimed Harold Gorman proudly. “You’re making a bold, smart, home-buying choice!”

“Well, with the real estate market the way…”, Yuri began.

“Market, Shmarket!”, Harold cut him off. “The Residence is going to completely change the real estate game! The potential here is virtually limitless!”

Yuri Chernikoff cringed inwardly and hoped it didn’t show on his face. He loathed pushy salespeople, but this felt like his last hope to get a place to live.

“I appreciate that Mr. Gorman, it’s just…”

Improbably, Gorman’s smile got even broader. “Harry! Call me Harry! Mr. Gorman was my father and that’s another story altogether!”

Smiling back much less forcefully, Yuri found himself wondering what it took to maintain that level of enthusiasm.

Harry was talking again.

“So, when you first move in, there will be a number of thing that The Residence won’t support. No Pets. No Smoking. You will only be able to have a couple of types of beer and only Coke products for soft drinks.”

He paused, then asked. “Speaking of drinks, can I offer you anything? Coffee, soft drink, water, something stronger?”

“No thank you.”, Yuri answered. “I’m fine for now.”

“Great! Great!”

Yuri was getting used to everything being exciting to Harold. It was really annoying, but he just had to get through this. He needed this place. He had friends who had been moved into one of the public housing enclaves. He had seen one a week ago and could tell he had been put on Suppressors. It had been like talking to a mannequin in store window. He didn’t want to live out his life like that.

Harry was still talking. “Your food options will also be limited for the first while. We’ve got the licensing in place for a lot of media, so you’ll have access to a huge amount of video, music games and other entertainment. News will be limited to that within The Residence itself. You’ll get used to that quickly enough I’m sure and as more people move in, there will be more in house content all the time.”

He sipped his coffee and continued. “As one of the first to move into The Residence, you will be first in line to receive new amenities as they come online. The Residence contains, theatres, music venues, restaurants, coffee shops medical clinics, nature areas where you will be able to spend time surrounded by plants and animals that you haven’t seen outside in years! We’ve spared no expense!”

Yuri tried to remember where he’d heard that phrase before.

“Of course,” continued Harold “It’s all going to seem pretty empty at first until more people get moved in. We’re counting on early adopters like you to serve as welcome ambassadors helping newcomers adjust to life in The Residence!”

Harry paused to take a sip of his coffee. “The most important rule in The Residence is that once you move in, you can’t go out into the city again. That’s just not going to be possible. We want to provide a complete lifestyle experience and that means insulating all our Residents from the misery of the city.”

“In The Residence, you will work, play, live, love and have the freedom to become who you truly are, and do it all free from the poverty, danger, stress and hopelessness of the city outside! The Residence needs pioneers like you!”

“When I initially called, they said payment would be explained during this intake interview.” Yuri paused awkwardly. “I don’t have a job or even a Mincome. Records of my birth parents were lost in an anti-social incident years ago so there’s no proof I’m a citizen. I can’t really pay for any of this.”

“We already knew all that!”, Gorman said with a not unkind chuckle. “Doesn’t matter at all! Like I said before, once you move into The Residence you can’t go back out to the city. Even if you had a job, you’d never work there again. Once you move in, you’ll work for The Residence! We have all sorts of contracts outside so we are going to need a ton of workers, and you will be one of the first. Basically, we negotiate a period of indenture that you would work to pay for your Residence. When you complete the term, you live out the rest of your days in peaceful leisure.”

The over-sized smile contrived to look conspiratorial rather than predatory, like he was going to impart a great secret or show you how to run a confidence game.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like slave labour. You’ll work a regular shift, then your downtime is yours to do what you want… within the limits I’ve already mentioned. But don’t worry too much about those limits. They are temporary and they have a real benefit in the long run. If you move in now, those limits will figure into your employment contract and will shave a fair bit of time off your indenture! Pioneering a new reality has its perks!”

Yuri already knew what he was going to do, but in his whole life, he had never been less sure something was a good idea.

“Would it be possible to get that drink you mentioned? Maybe a rum and Coke?”

“That depends on you Yuri!” Harry leaned forward and put a hand on Chernikoff’s shoulder. “If you’re ready to pull the trigger on this opportunity, we need to sign you up first. For legal reasons, you can’t be under the influence of alcohol or other drugs when you sign. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll get you anything you want… subject to current licensing of course.”

Yuri looked around the office they were in. Amazed again by the finishes, the lighting the ring around the inside of Harry’s coffee cup. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he was sitting in a real office.

“This is what The Residence is going to be like?”, he asked.

“Not at all!”, enthused his virtual salesman. “The Residence is lot nicer than this! You’re going to be blown away when you get the full bandwidth experience! Blown Away!”

Harold ‘Harry’ Gorman digital frontman tapped the top of his desk and a screen appeared displaying a legal document. “Given your early entry to The Residence, lack of a criminal background, apparent skillset based off your employment aptitude tests, public health records, and all other factors, your indenture term would be fifteen years. If you agree, place your thumb in the box at the bottom of the screen!”

Yuri was thirty-seven. Fifteen years would make him fifty-two when he finished his term. 

“It still leaves you quite a few years to enjoy yourself, and as we add new and better data centers there will be more opportunities for that enjoyment as we go!” 

Seeing Yuri place his thumb on the screen, Harold crossed to the bar and mixed a rum and Coke. Returning to the low desk, he placed the drink in front of his client.

“Enjoy my friend! You’ll sleep on the cot in the room where you got set up today. Tomorrow, you’ll get fitted with life support and we’ll wire you into The Residence. Then it’s time to start your new life!”

“Welcome to The Residence Yuri!”

The opportunity to tell me what you think is “virtually unlimited”!

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day 6

On By WinstonIn Fantasy, fiction, Flash Fiction February, Loving Life, Simple Things, Storytelling, The Old Ways, Values, writingLeave a comment

The Maker

Yusuf ran his eye over the piece of hickory held in the jaws of the vice before him seeking imperfections. The plane in his hands would’ve shamed a razor with its edge. He made a few slow, smooth passes along the wood and looked critically at it again.

Master Marat had said many times, “Yusuf, it is an axe handle (or rake handle or some other tool) there is no need to make it perfect. It is going to get banged around and dropped and damaged. Don’t work so much at each one, they’re just going to get broken eventually.”

The boy would just smile his open, innocent smile and say, “But they aren’t yet, and it was you who told me when I started working here, ‘Any job worth doing, is worth doing right.’ Making handles is a job worth doing.”

The Master would walk away shaking his head. 

He loosened the vice and removed the handle. He slid his hand carefully along the shaft. Finding a few barely perceptible bumps, deftly working the plane while carefully shifting the wood in his other hand.

Turning, he placed the plane in its place on the shelf over the workbench. There was a strip of wood under one end keeping the blade from resting on the shelf which would dull it. All of Yusuf’s tools were protected like that. Tools which were used only rarely gleamed with a thin layer of oil to protect them from rusting.

Now, he took a freshly washed rag and dipped it into a small container of vegetable oil. Starting at the bottom of the handle, he worked the oil into the wood, slowly, methodically until he reached the place where the axe head would attach. Dipping the rag again into the oil, he started at the top and carefully continued oiling the handle to its base. After two more passes, Yusuf judged the wood had absorbed all the oil it would for now. 

Carrying the handle to Master Marat’s part of the workshop, he picked up the axe head the Master had completed earlier in the day. Before returning to his own work area he moved to the grinder and worked the treadle to bring the stone wheel up to speed. Moving with his usual care and dexterity, he worked some minor imperfections out of the edge of the blade. Once satisfied, he slowed the tempo of the treadle until the wheel stopped. He then took the axe head and handle back to his own part of the shop.

Yusuf placed the axe head on a piece of clean, soft leather on his bench. Taking down a small, square saw, he cut a slot lengthwise into the top of the handle. Next, he cut two evenly spaced slots across the short length creating a double-barred cross. 

He placed the butt of the handle on the floor, picked up the axe head and slid it over the crown of the handle. He thumped the handle gently on the piece of pine he kept nearby for just that purpose. Once the head was seated with perhaps a quarter-inch of handle sticking up above the head, he selected an oak shim, seated it and gently tapped it into place with a small wooden mallet. Using the square saw, he cut both the crown of the handle and shim off level with the top of the axe head.

In a drawer above his bench were a number of small brass shims. Selecting the four most promising, he compared them to the notches remaining in the crown of the handle. A few minutes work with a small file and they fit the notches exactly. Placing a thicker piece of flat brass across the tops of the shims, he used the mallet to tap them carefully into place. Finally, he filed the tops of the brass shims level with the axe head. Picking up a soft cloth, he wiped the finished axe carefully free of dust from the work he had done.

Replacing the cloth, Yusuf walked to the door, the axe still in his hand. He was still a youth, just thirteen summers, but years in the workshop had made him strong for his age and the axe sat easily in his hands. Night had fallen as he worked and looking east, he could see a twinkle of fires on the distant hills and knew they were the campfires of armies. The war was all the talk in the village, but Yusuf never bothered about talk like that. He preferred just to work and make himself useful. He knew that one day, the war might come here and he would need either to run away or try to defend the workshop. 

But that wasn’t right now, and as he turned from the distant fires thoughts of war slipped from his mind like a bead of mercury sliding off a steel ball. Placing the axe on a rack where its new owner would collect it the next day, he went to the rack of wood and selected a long, slender piece of ash. The springiness of it would make a good handle for a hoe. It would be less likely to break when thumped into the hard ground to remove the weeds in someone’s garden. Returning to his workshop, he picked up a spokeshave and set to work.

When I change a pace, I don’t mess around. As always would love your thoughts!

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day 5

On By WinstonIn Creativity, fiction, Flash Fiction February, My Chaotic Mind, Storytelling, The Choices We Make, writingLeave a comment

Don’t Open That Window

“Does that plane look like it’s on a normal flight path to you?”

Doug’s wife looked up from the novel she was reading. “What plane is that then?”, she asked peering skyward and feigning and interest she definitely didn’t feel. She was just getting to the juicy bit and didn’t feel like being interrupted.

“I’m sure the pilots know more about what they’re doing than you do.” With this pronouncement, she went back to the Duke and the bartender anxious to find out what that was going to turn out like.

Sparing Denise a quick glare, he went back to anxiously watching the plane in question. It was passing from view over the house. Getting to his feet, he hurried through the house to stand on the front step waiting to catch sight of it again.

Doug couldn’t say what looked off about it, but there was something for sure.

His neighbour Terry was watering the flower beds beside his front walk. When he saw Doug staring intently at the sky, he turned to see what he was looking at. There was a plane arcing peacefully across the sky, but that couldn’t be it.

“Whatcha lookin’ at Dougie?”, he asked good naturedly. Terry was fundamentally good natured. It was his default setting and sometimes, it could rub people the wrong way. They didn’t understand him and tended to think he was somehow making fun of them. 

Looking over for a moment Doug replied, “It’s that plane up there. I can’t put my finger on it,” his eyes were already tracking back to it “but there’s something just doesn’t look right.”

Terry peered more closely at the plane trying to see anything unusual to be a supportive friend. 

Young Carol Martin was riding past on her way to her friend Diane’s place so they could study (mostly teen hotties online but officially math). Seeing the two men staring upwards, she stopped her bike and looked at the sky curiously. She didn’t know what they were looking at but assumed she would know it if she saw it. After a few minutes of seeing nothing, she pushed off and pedalled on her way to Diane’s.

Presently, the plane disappeared over the truncated horizon of the nearby rooftops.

“Looked normal to me.”, Terry said apologetically and went back to his watering.

Shaking his head and still glancing at the now empty sky, Doug stood thoughtfully on his step for another minute before returning to the backyard and taking his seat on the lounge chair next to Denise.

“Doesn’t that plane look just like the last one that flew over a little while ago?” Doug asked his wife. 

Denise looked up annoyed from her book where the Duchess and a bartender were about to get juicy. “What plane?”

He pointed at the aircraft arcing gently across the bright, cerulean sky. “That one. Doesn’t it look like the one like twenty minutes ago?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh as she tended to do when she wanted him to understand he was getting on her nerve. “There was no plane twenty minutes ago.”

He started to say something, and she held up a hand palm outward in the universal gesture for “shut up”. “Even if there had been a plane twenty minutes ago, there are only so many types of big passenger planes so of course they’re going to look similar. It’s the mechanical version of convergent evolution.” Denise didn’t always read smut and sometimes liked to remind her husband of that fact.

Unconvinced but unwilling to annoy her further, he returned to his own book but continued casting furtive glances at the sky.

The third time the plane started its lazy crawl across the sky, Doug didn’t say anything to his husband Dennis. He just got up and went through the house to stand on the front porch and watch the plane.

Dennis barely noticed him leave. In the book he was reading, the Duke was about to get juicy with a blacksmith and he wasn’t about to let Doug interrupt that.

Terry was still watering his plants although as far as Doug could tell, he was watering the same ones as he had been half an hour ago. He was on the verge of saying something when two very unexpected things happened. Carol Martin cruised past on an electric scooter heading the same direction as she had been going earlier on her bike. More disturbingly, he realized he didn’t have a husband named Dennis, but rather a wife named Denise. Rushing back through the house, he realized that many of the things he was used to seeing every day were subtly different.

He emerged into a back yard he barely recognized and looked up to see the same plane sailing smoothly across the sky. Doug fell on his ass on the patio and began to laugh.

At a university in Montreal Professor Douglas Grant glanced at his research assistant, a PhD candidate named Denise Hutchins. “It should have worked damn it! Maybe we’re never going to be able to open a portal allowing us to look sideways from one timeline into another similar but slightly different.”

Denise nodded. “Even if we could, there’s the danger of falling through. If that happened you could end up endlessly flipping from one line to another forever drifting further from the reality you know. I wonder if some of the people in asylums aren’t travellers who wandered too far.

In a nearly infinite number of realities Doug sat in care facility and laughed and laughed.

Take a moment and let me know what you think. If I don’t like it, I can always go look for a reality where you said something nice 🙂

Cheers,