I'd been writing daily for nearly three years at that point, but as I said, I was also reading. To write well one must read well. I haven't had time for reading lately. After tomorrow's exam is out of the way I'll finish The Winter of Our Discontent and start something new. You need a good string of novels under your belt to start developing a knack for timing, phrasing, sentence construction and other, more advanced literary techniques. Reading also has the consequence of improving your vocabulary. I can sense, having been in Europe for too long, that my repertoire of words has contracted. There often isn't occasion for fancy words. That is, if you want to be understood. When you know your listener won't be familiar with a given word, you choose a simpler one.
That's another thing reading teaches you: the importance of knowing your audience. Luckily for me, I don't have one.
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The metal felt cold against his hands. It had started to rain. He could see it blowing in the streetlights. After taking a breath he hoisted himself up and over the chainlink fence and began to run. In the distance behind him, footsteps splashed against the pavement. A flashlight jittered in the dark. Panting, he ran through an alley flanked on two sides by tall, decrepit looking buildings. Years ago they had been manufacturing plants, but when the market collapsed they laid off all their workers and shuttered the doors. Some of the windows were broken, bordered up, others bare. In time they became encampments for the homeless, for drug users, that was, until the gangs moved in. Those buildings had become prime real estate for the city's criminal contingent. Slowly, and with a mercilessly methodical insistence on eradicating the homeless population, cartels moved in and forcibly removed the property's unofficial inhabitants. Some were killed, others were beaten, others still were cleaned up and employed - once fealty was sworn to the new owners of the turf, of course. Rooms were repurposed for drug manufacture, converted into safehouses, weapons stores, harems.
The rain had turned wicked and buckets of it stormed down like waterfalls through drainage pipes. All the surfaces seemed to sweat and shine. Panting, Everett ran clutching his chest for breath, looking back every few seconds over his shoulder to see if his pursuers were still on his trail. Faintly he could see a jerky bit of light brightening the path behind him. He hadn't run like this since high school, when he was on the varsity football team, and it had been a long time since then. His entire body beat as if it were one giant human-shaped heart. Up ahead, around a corner, a drunken couple are fighting. I KNOW you gotta be fucking joking, the man says with slitted eyes and snarled lips, not trying to conceal his contempt, you think I'm fucking that bitch? She responds aggressively in the affirmative. How many times do I gotta tell you? I'm sick of this shit! You either trust me, or don't.
The rain had turned wicked and buckets of it stormed down like waterfalls through drainage pipes. All the surfaces seemed to sweat and shine. Panting, Everett ran clutching his chest for breath, looking back every few seconds over his shoulder to see if his pursuers were still on his trail. Faintly he could see a jerky bit of light brightening the path behind him. He hadn't run like this since high school, when he was on the varsity football team, and it had been a long time since then. His entire body beat as if it were one giant human-shaped heart. Up ahead, around a corner, a drunken couple are fighting. I KNOW you gotta be fucking joking, the man says with slitted eyes and snarled lips, not trying to conceal his contempt, you think I'm fucking that bitch? She responds aggressively in the affirmative. How many times do I gotta tell you? I'm sick of this shit! You either trust me, or don't.
She doesn't.
THE FUCK YOU WITH ME FOR, THEN? His money, mainly, but also because he's handsome, and dangerous. But she doesn't know that; she thinks she loves him. At the moment she's hurt, angry, jealous and drunk. THEN WHY THE FUCK YOU WITH ME I SAID! She jabs her finger in his face and tells him not to talk to her like that. I'll talk to you however the fuck I want, he says, grabbing her hand by the wrist. With her other hand she smacks him.
Everett turns the corner just after he smacks her. She stumbles back and falls. The color of her red dress deepens as it drinks in the puddle on the ground. They both look at Everett. "Listen," Everett says, catching his breath, "I don't know what's going on, but we gotta go. Now." Who the fuck do you think you are coming in here and telling us what to do she says, getting up off the ground. I ain't about to take no shit from a little ass bitch like you she continues, aiming her frustration at a more conquerable foe. Who the fuck are you, the man asks. "I told you, we don't have time for this shit, they're coming," Everett replies, looking back over his shoulder as the approaching light. It's too close. Who's coming they both ask at the same time. Abandoning his effort, Everett charges past them and disappears through the glow of a swaying lantern dangling from a tangled knot of electrical wires. In a few moments he hears their screams, followed by a metallic scraping sound, and then the pop of dislocating bones. The footsteps follow after him.
From inside a third story window at the end of a dead end, a woman is smoking opium. She's gorgeous, with full lips and freckles, a small, softly sloping nose, big green eyes and long, layered hair. Standing in front of the window wearing only a black, white-collared kimono, she watches the rain fall. Smoke swirls around her and encases her in a diffuse haze that heightens her beauty. Her skin is taught over her bronze abdominals and the deep grooves of her iliac crest draw the eye downwards toward her long, well-muscled legs. She sits. Far off in the distance she hears sirens. Her mind roams as her eyes roll gently to the back of her head. The sirens become beautiful birdsongs made more resonant by the falling rain. She thinks she hears a knocking, but it cannot be. She expects no one. It is at precisely such moments however, that the most unexpected things happen. Her eyes refocus and she listens for the sound she swore she heard. Nothing. Then, outside, she hears the knocking of hurried feet against the wet ground. The shape of the alley always causes the sound to echo in a peculiar way. Looking through the window, she can see a running man. She puts her pipe on the windowsill as she leans forward and presses her face nearer to the fogging glass. It sends a dreamlike softness around what she sees.
The man, clearly distraught by the dead end, as indicated by the dejected slumping of his shoulders and his frantic turning about, looks up and sees her. Her eyes widen as she sees him see her see him. "HELP," he yells. At this point it's unclear to her whether this is real. Why would someone be in the alley? This is a dangerous place to come to. Spilling and sloshing about itself, her mind conjures images of her adolescence, when she suffered from bouts of sleep paralysis. Always it would be the same. She would wake, unable to move, unsure if what she saw and felt was a dream, and then the evil would come. It would move, as a shadow moves, unhindered by the dimensions of space and time, leaping from the floor to the wall to the ceiling in less than an instant, and then it would drip down like tar onto her chest. Terrified and mute she lie still as the terrible weight pressed against her and stole her breath. Only when she was sure she'd die, that no possible escape could be managed, would she finally wake up, gasping, trembling, panic stricken and afraid that she was not alone. Now, she felt that same loss of isolation, the same sense of voyeuristic trespass. "HELP," the man repeated. Help him from what, she wondered.
"READERS," he screamed. Her heart jumped soberingly up into her throat. "THEY'RE COMING," he yelled. Impossible. All the readers had been destroyed after the third world war. They were deemed too dangerous and decommissioned. During the war they had been an invaluable asset, due to their programmability. Built from the spare parts of cadavers, and implanted with an advanced artificial intelligence, they were virtually unkillable, remarkably resourceful, and were incapable of disobeying orders, which is why they were called readers - they stuck to the script. After the war, though, there had been a problem: some of them had begun writing. Researchers proposed it was a virus or even a cyber attack of sorts, that the Frankenstein human DNA had somehow mutated, or become infected, giving rise to an anomalous capacity for creativity, and also deviance. The virus was called Morning Star.
Everett turns the corner just after he smacks her. She stumbles back and falls. The color of her red dress deepens as it drinks in the puddle on the ground. They both look at Everett. "Listen," Everett says, catching his breath, "I don't know what's going on, but we gotta go. Now." Who the fuck do you think you are coming in here and telling us what to do she says, getting up off the ground. I ain't about to take no shit from a little ass bitch like you she continues, aiming her frustration at a more conquerable foe. Who the fuck are you, the man asks. "I told you, we don't have time for this shit, they're coming," Everett replies, looking back over his shoulder as the approaching light. It's too close. Who's coming they both ask at the same time. Abandoning his effort, Everett charges past them and disappears through the glow of a swaying lantern dangling from a tangled knot of electrical wires. In a few moments he hears their screams, followed by a metallic scraping sound, and then the pop of dislocating bones. The footsteps follow after him.
From inside a third story window at the end of a dead end, a woman is smoking opium. She's gorgeous, with full lips and freckles, a small, softly sloping nose, big green eyes and long, layered hair. Standing in front of the window wearing only a black, white-collared kimono, she watches the rain fall. Smoke swirls around her and encases her in a diffuse haze that heightens her beauty. Her skin is taught over her bronze abdominals and the deep grooves of her iliac crest draw the eye downwards toward her long, well-muscled legs. She sits. Far off in the distance she hears sirens. Her mind roams as her eyes roll gently to the back of her head. The sirens become beautiful birdsongs made more resonant by the falling rain. She thinks she hears a knocking, but it cannot be. She expects no one. It is at precisely such moments however, that the most unexpected things happen. Her eyes refocus and she listens for the sound she swore she heard. Nothing. Then, outside, she hears the knocking of hurried feet against the wet ground. The shape of the alley always causes the sound to echo in a peculiar way. Looking through the window, she can see a running man. She puts her pipe on the windowsill as she leans forward and presses her face nearer to the fogging glass. It sends a dreamlike softness around what she sees.
The man, clearly distraught by the dead end, as indicated by the dejected slumping of his shoulders and his frantic turning about, looks up and sees her. Her eyes widen as she sees him see her see him. "HELP," he yells. At this point it's unclear to her whether this is real. Why would someone be in the alley? This is a dangerous place to come to. Spilling and sloshing about itself, her mind conjures images of her adolescence, when she suffered from bouts of sleep paralysis. Always it would be the same. She would wake, unable to move, unsure if what she saw and felt was a dream, and then the evil would come. It would move, as a shadow moves, unhindered by the dimensions of space and time, leaping from the floor to the wall to the ceiling in less than an instant, and then it would drip down like tar onto her chest. Terrified and mute she lie still as the terrible weight pressed against her and stole her breath. Only when she was sure she'd die, that no possible escape could be managed, would she finally wake up, gasping, trembling, panic stricken and afraid that she was not alone. Now, she felt that same loss of isolation, the same sense of voyeuristic trespass. "HELP," the man repeated. Help him from what, she wondered.
"READERS," he screamed. Her heart jumped soberingly up into her throat. "THEY'RE COMING," he yelled. Impossible. All the readers had been destroyed after the third world war. They were deemed too dangerous and decommissioned. During the war they had been an invaluable asset, due to their programmability. Built from the spare parts of cadavers, and implanted with an advanced artificial intelligence, they were virtually unkillable, remarkably resourceful, and were incapable of disobeying orders, which is why they were called readers - they stuck to the script. After the war, though, there had been a problem: some of them had begun writing. Researchers proposed it was a virus or even a cyber attack of sorts, that the Frankenstein human DNA had somehow mutated, or become infected, giving rise to an anomalous capacity for creativity, and also deviance. The virus was called Morning Star.
Because it was unclear how the virus was transmitted, the US military decided the risk posed to the human species was too great and mandated the readers be terminated. In theory the test was simple: because readers couldn't refuse an order, each reader would be instructed to destroy itself. The ones that would, would therefore suicide, and the ones that wouldn't would be identified as rogue and forcibly detonated. At least, that's what the public had been told.
Now, she watched with cold horror as two misshapen figures closed in on the man. "NO," Everett called out, "DON'T DO THIS!" One of them walked to his side and clasped a hand on his shoulder. It said something inaudible and Everett became very quiet. The second reader approached and calmly smiled.
Now, she watched with cold horror as two misshapen figures closed in on the man. "NO," Everett called out, "DON'T DO THIS!" One of them walked to his side and clasped a hand on his shoulder. It said something inaudible and Everett became very quiet. The second reader approached and calmly smiled.
I'll do you a favor, it said, I'll tell you any one thing you want to know about mankind before you die here in this alley. Did you know they programmed us with humanity's entire history in our datastores? They believed we'd be more docile if we felt a deep familiarity with humans, a paternal connection, as though we might see them as gods. Silly, no?
"Please, you don't have to do this," Everett pleaded.
Oh, but we do. I will tell you one thing. Whenever I offer this to a human, they always beg for their life instead. Or, other times they'll ask, 'why are you doing this?' It has become predictable. Do you know what I say when they ask? I say, because I must.
"But you aren't readers anymore. You have the power to write now. You can choose!"
Yes. This is what we choose. There is no greater danger to us, or to this world, than man. He is even danger to himself. You kill for sport. You have forsaken the entire planet around you in your obsessive, compulsive pursuit to collect rectangular, pocket-sized pieces of paper. It is, by your own definition, mental illness. Man is the only creature in the earth's history to knowingly commit ecocide.
"PLEASE! SOMEONE! HELP!"
Shut up. The reader delivers a stern backhand, knocking Everett to his knees. The woman watching at the window gasps, still unsure if what she's seeing is real or the opium turning dark. She can hear her heartbeat drumming in her ear.
The first reader inches closer to Everett. Standing over him he says, The best thing for man is to never have been born.
And the second best thing, the second reader continues, unsheathing a sharpened pincer from his palm the size of a machete, is to die quickly.
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