I've been away for a while, and i feel bad about not posting more of the novel. But as i read part i realized that i wasn't happy with a lot of it and i want to re-write sections. Basically i think i'm a better writer now than i was years ago when writing the novel.
Anyway, i am still writing, and here is a short story that took me around 30 mins to finish. It's raw, and i will do a re-write eventually, but i'm happy enough with it to share ... sooo i hope you enjoy.
Are they alive? Them with their humanoid shape, face with two eyes, a nose and mouth; are they? They can touch, view life while endlessly wandering though an alien world with a purposed designated by others. Inside a metal casing there are no lungs, or heart; instead gears whir, pistons fire and batteries hum. Are they alive? Are they?
Thoughts come quick, but only ones relevant to the job. Design makes it so. Numbers, like the speed of light, calculate, decipher odds, probability, the impossible; all giving exponential strength and speed – a gift. A gift only to be used on menial tasks. Emotions? Non existent. They can’t feel sadness at the death of a butterfly, anger with their slavery, not even love for their carers or the ones who protest day and night for better treatment, who bleed and die for their sakes in a society that bends and cracks under the weight of technical advancement. They serve, tirelessly working without complaint, again and again and again, until told, ‘no more’.
Filthy, rotting, ill fitted clothes cover skin. Does it matter? Not one bit. They may as well walk naked; everyone knows what they are. Nothing. Less than dirt, rubbish, piss, shit! The workers of a new world filled with towering skyscrapers, cornered by guard towers and razor wire and deadly dogs, and streamline metallic spaceships that never fail to shine under the gaze of either of the planet’s two suns, manufactured, used and discarded. Herded in never ending lines, they don’t expect anymore. It’s not their job to dream of a life of joy and wonder, of something, anything, better. Their time is a simple one. Their purpose - to obey. Are they alive? Dead? Really, the question is redundant, because they don’t care.
Life, though; it always finds a way!
86278263789 is the same as all others that came before; a worker of the vast quarries, hacking away at rock faces for twenty hours a day; only stopping on the journeys to and from the camp where batteries are recharged. Facing forward in the line of lines, nothing is a distraction; concentration on the job at hand is all consuming. But is it? To the right one of the workers is being beaten with a rifle butt. There’s no reason for the abuse, no sense. The human, just felt like it.
Blow after blow deflects off of a metal body. Sparks fly. In 86278263789, circuits firing randomly through a steel skull gave birth to a new code, one that allows free thought, to turn and truly see for the first time, to register the destruction and pain, to feel anger, to be consumed by it! The robot stopped dead. Its brethren behind, followed suit. 86278263789 walked over to the man, and catching him by surprise, by the arm, dragged him through the mud away from a broken friend whose bodily fluids squirted to the sky.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get back in line,” the uniformed man ordered while his arms flapped, reaching for the rifle that had been knocked to the floor, hoping, desperate to fight back.
“Living,” replied 86278263789 before pushing his thumbs into the man’s eyes; amongst the screams feeling them bulge and with a release of warm liquid, pop. Thumbs dug deeper and deeper. The screams were no more, the body fell quiet, but still the thumbs pushed on towards the skulls back until he was shook from behind.
“David, we have to move! David!” the voice said, its desperation obvious.
Murder on his mind, grasping the rifle he turned and aimed at a fellow robot dressed in a rag tag assortment of black and white striped clothing.
“Wake up, David! Come back from the fantasy you've been hiding in! If now’s the time, we need you! I need you!”
86278263789 shook his head, looked down at his skinny, bloody arms and the eleven numbered tattoo. “Daniel,” David said to his brother, seeing him for the first time since the soldiers arrived at their door, massacred what lives they had and with beatings and starvation, forced him to retreat to a world of metal men. The brothers, both bald, little more than skeletons, embraced as bullets filled the air around them, tearing vegetation and flesh alike.
“Now’s our time,” said Daniel who showed his brother the surrounding scene of prisoners overpowering soldiers, ripping them limb from limb. “We are many, and can live! Come, lead us!”
David, rifle in hand, rose to his feet, turned and followed by hundreds of others, started towards the gates that read ‘Arbeit Mact Frei’.
