moroccanred

[moroccanred]

12/3/2018  1:02 AM

I want to be the best at what I do, but the constant realization that I’m faced with is that I’m mediocre. I get distracted easily, I don’t budget my time well; I often can’t sleep and have trouble waking up. Everyone has these great expectations of what I will come out to do, and I know that inevitably, somehow, I will fail them. I struggle to be better but often fall into pitfalls of distractions. I’ve found myself growing more isolated from people I cared about day to day; some friendships I’ve severed all together. Often I ask myself how I can change, and I know the answer but lack the willpower to act on it, day after meandering day my petty distractions are losing their allure. I throw money at things in hopes that they give me some feeling of discovery or wonder and often end up disappointed. Time is always ticking, and I feel lonely every day. I used to be very expressive, I used to not care what others thought; now I find myself boxed in by fear and apathy.  I want to meet someone, I want to be full of love and excitement and happy when i meet that someone. I want to be whole when I see them, I want to know who I am in its entirety but the more I pour into myself the more I notice that there is no bottom. I am a broken glass, unable to hold water; how does someone fill that? I want to be well regarded, as someone capable - not bumbling and incompetent. I want to be appreciated and admired. I want to be strong. I want to be brave. I want to be all of these things at once and right now I am so very little.

[moroccanred]

7/3/2017: 38 Months

Her, 8:57 A.M: hey

Me, 10:02 A.M: hey what’s up.

Me, 12:00 P.M: ..

Her, 12:01 P.M: hey

Me,  12:01 PM: yo

Me, 12:02 PM: what’s Happening

Me, 12:44 PM: you ok?

Me, 12:53 PM: well, hope you’re all right.

Me, 12:53 PM: here, if you wanna talk.

Her, 12:54 PM: sorry lolive been so busy!!

 I’ve been sitting around waiting for tomorrow. Woke up at noon, didn’t go to sleep late, just instinctively knew I didn’t want to interact with others today. Played hearthstone on the toilet, got angry at losing, watched some anime about farming, watched the ripples in the family pool cast shadows on the ground below. I’m living with my parents right now. My father spends the first part of the day working himself to exhaustion and the second part of the day working more. He’s redone every single room in our house by hand. Last year he finished, walked out front, turned his head and decided it needed a garage. Last summer, the garage was permitted and approved, he went out front again, turned his head, decided the garage could use three extra rooms on top of it.

I make lunch for us, we sit together, he eats in five minutes looking into the distance, lost in thought. Standing up when done he looks past me.

“Want to sit for a bit?”

“Work to do.”

I pick up what’s left and he goes back to building his castle. I feel immeasurable pride and awe. He is disciplined and determined to a fault. His sister has come to visit him from Albania, she’s been here for 23 days. She tells him to relax and take it easy often. He does not listen. My mother has said the same. He does not listen. My brother and I have followed suit. He does not listen. My father spends free mornings with my aunt. They drink coffee on our deck and talk, of what I don’t know. I’m never up at that time.

There’s a building tension as days go by, a pressure ready to explode. We sit around and our words grow less kind. He looks at me along with my mother. “If you were OK, we’d want for nothing,” they say. I nod, I understand, it is so simple. So, why is it that when my fingers hover over what I must do, I am frozen? Days of happiness, true happiness, have been so few and far between. I want it. Move.

I want to be naked, my soul out there. Everything I am for all to see, my spirit autopsied, someone to look at the chart of who I am, face me, smile and say, “ You’re not terrible after all.”

 Me, 12:55 PM: it’s fine. just was weird messaging me hey an stopping.

Me, 12:56 PM: how’s work going?

#Life #Depression #Family

[moroccanred]

7/2/2017: Hydroxyurea 1000mg, Daily.

Fuck Tony Horton. I think it every day. I work to that 90’s video, usually plastered over 3 A.M. infomercials which catch your eye when you’re either drunk or stoned and half asleep. Signs you’ve been up too long with nothing to do. I follow through with his routine and listen to his replayed encouragement with my 15 and 11 year old cousins who, for some reason, have decided that looking up to a person like me is a wise decision. Davis started at 170 pounds. He’s at 167 after 5 days, I’m proud of him. I remember the movie sausage party and think , To-ny Hor-ton? What kind of parent gives their kid a stupid cunt name like that. I think it. I keep it to myself, need to be a good example of calm. I’m 25, soon to be 26, and my kid cousins scream what I’m thinking mid-exercise. They’re yelling at the screen. I’m thinking to myself I should be doing better. Keep form, don’t stop, be the best, otherwise they’ll take it easy. Fuck Tony Horton.

It’s been 20 days since I started turning myself into a human infomercial. I didn’t pay, but right now Tony Horton is a saviour and I feel like I owe him, need to buy the next set, shakeology, keep pushing play, take your supplements, curl tip of hair at front, become a perfect adonis. Immaculate man dropped on earth, pecs larger than the tits of most women I’ve been with, thighs which could twist rebar, maybe clear weakness of the soul.  A stretch. For now it makes me feel better. 20 days ago BPM was 103, now at 65.  We lay in films of our sweat on hot yoga mats in 90 degree temperature, detached and out of breath, today was cardio. “This is work.”, I think to myself, it makes me happy, I feel less worthless.

25 years of Thalassemia Intermedia, a blood disorder that comes in all shapes and sizes. My parents had a version so mild that it wasn’t diagnosed until they had me. Most people fall into 2 camps. Thal Major used to kill by the teens, modern science allows for bone marrow transplants. Highly dangerous, like jumping into a dark pit, blind to what’s coming in the bottom. Thal Minor; where you give it to your shit kids.Intermedia, dragged down by a weight, everything harder, and no sane doctor would let you try the pit. Childhood was normal, into college things felt like they were shutting down. Fatigue, detachment, lightning strikes of fear. It is difficult to explain the experience of knowing what you have to do, wanting to do what you have to do and not doing it. Like staring at an oncoming truck, you need to move out of the way, everything screams move. You stay still, trapped in your own body, yet there. A slow suicide to time.

The 25th year: Hydroxyurea. “We’ll start at a low dosage and go from there to see if things improve.” After years, the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia has heard my call and is trying to do something about it. Hemoglobin jumps from 9.5 to 11.5. Blood oxygen content almost at the level of a healthy woman. Brain starting to pull out of low power mode, synaptic receptors up, dopamine regulating, anxiety stops, so does nail biting. Mind almost lucid, memory almost clear. Start waking up, taking control of self again, feeling things about self, feeling things about others. So many things broken, life in disarray. Look at my body, never again. Find Tony. Press play.   

#Tony Horton #P90 #bodybuilding #Ass #workout #Depression #Anxiety #Illness

[moroccanred]

[moroccanred]

Towers

Spiraling mosaic towers would spring towards the sky, their builders sitting on top joyfully laying multicolored brick as the unstable towers wavered in the air . They were peppered with holes, as they grew, unable to hold up their own weight, they would collapse. The laughing bright eyed architects would fall with them, landing on the ground dead. 

A man at the ground started building his, strong, and wide at the base. Climbing higher than all the others  as he laid down each black brick. The tower’s shadow engulfed the mosaics. The sun’s rays stopped hitting multicolored stained glass, absorbed by black brick. One day the growing tower began to swing like the others, the engineer kept laying brick trying to grab onto something he was reaching towards. In the last few seconds he jumped grasping at something as the dark tower fell shattering the mosaics beneath. 

[moroccanred]

Red Rises the Sun

Maybe I’m empty; under the veneer of what people call emotions, maybe I have nothing there. Sure, I feel things, I have regular and ordinary reactions to the world around me. It’s not like I’m a machine, I just don’t want anything, or I can’t find anything I want. I don’t mean material things, I mean I just don’t want anything more than the essentials: Food, a bed, warmth, a woman. That’s enough. What’s the difference though? Those are things everyone wants; when I think about my life and ask the question, ‘what do I want that’s different?’ I can’t think of anything. That horrifies me. I am the basic framework of a human being, I don’t have the desire to do anything unique be anything special, or be regarded as someone worthwhile. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t jump on the chance to be amazing in an instant. Anyone would. I just wouldn’t try. Some people have a blazing fire inside that drives them. They know what they want; it might not be rational or right but they have desires they pursue relentlessly. People don’t have souls, but that independent drive that pushes them towards a singular powerful pursuit, that drive that makes them weather suffering and boredom and despair; that’s as close as you can get. So without that what am I? Just an outline. How can a man make his own soul. How can someone wake up one morning and just pursue something with a fervor and fury so powerful that it can make the sun balk from rising. Those people who are bound to pursuit are blessed regardless of how impossible the pursuit is. 

[moroccanred]

Jesus Christ I’m so good at drawing Skellingtons. 

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[moroccanred]

It has gone out.

She woke at dawn.  Scrambling to pick things up from her hovel, she quickly ran to the sage. He was a gruff man, always peddling questionable concoctions for whatever troubles ailed the village. The last winter was an icy one. The village could not handle it. They went to him so not to starve.  He had brewed a wispy mixture meant for the son of the village elder to consume, hours of ritual followed the drink’s consumption. It brought an early spring at the cost of the boy’s life. His magics had worked then, why not now? She wondered this, and then something else.  How many lives would this take, did they have enough? Smashing against his door in the morning. 

He could hear screaming pierce through as he tried to cover his head with patches of sheepskin, “OPEN, OPEN, OPEN..” His eyes opened, they were filled with lamentation that he had come to such a backwater place. There was once a lust for ambition and adventure, but fear had taken him and locked him away into one of the corners of the world. There were no battles to fight here but old age, something he was losing to slowly. He got up while shifting his bones, worn, off the straw bed in a tempered manner. Despite his assurances to the woman outside that he would indeed open, and be furious, the terrorizing cacophony would not stop. He tried to feel around his home in the pitch black, following the screeching cries of the madwoman. Finally his hand grasped the latch, pulled it off, and swung the door open. He was greeted with more darkness. A voice spoke to him in the black. Margary,the new widow, the darkness, cried out to him; “It has gone out!”, she wailed in lamentation, “I swallowed it in my sleep,”. The sage tried to squint his eyes and make her out. They should have grown accustomed by now, but there was still just darkness. He could see the silhouette of her head, it was a pitch black made out by thousands of stars behind her. 

“It was just a dream woman!,” he roared, “ You are clearly delusional! I have been tolerant with you as of late, but now I cannot even sleep in peace!.” 

The noise had begun to wake the village. Through tripping and stumbling others had managed to make it to their doors. They watched the darkness as they listened for the week’s drop of drama.  “ It has gone out!”, she screamed again, “ It has gone out!”.

“I do not care!,” he yelled while moving closer in hopes of making her out, “If you want some potion or draught come back in the morning!” “The morning!,” she screamed.  “Yes the morning you daft madwoman,” He yelled. He could swear he was inches from her but there was only black.  “It is the morning!,” She screamed now turning to address the village.  He could hear her begin to run, now away from him towards the road leading away to the country side. She continue screaming the same thing in repetition, “I swallowed it in my sleep!” It was the only thing that could be heard while the village remained silent. Minutes passed as the echoes of her voiced died out until only the sound of the birds remained.  In the still calm, he took his time to collect himself. Even the birds had been woken by the her screams. He looked up at the stars, they seemed brighter that night, millions of them illuminated the sky. For a second his smile remained as he appreciated the view, then suddenly his body froze.  Somewhere in the village someone yelled, “ It has gone out!”

[moroccanred]

.1.

Its maw opened to a thousand swirling horrors colored in death and pestilence.  “What is your bidding, Frank,” the beast screeched. Frank took of his cloak, revealing a thin body with horn rimmed glasses perched upon the brow which one would not expect to see on the eighth plane of despair.  “Your rent is due.”

The beast recoiled while letting out a pained scream that would make lesser entities seize up and die, “ Next Thursday... come back next Thursday......”

Frank’s eyes narrowed to daggers as the beast retreated through the air in a mix of, swirling, bloody appendages.  

“That’s what you said last week,” He muttered. 

[moroccanred]

The white clock.

Look in time; There is no time. Only a clock.

The clock does not tell the time, it is merely a reminder that you have none.

Hurry.

[moroccanred]

Train Tracks.

She's sitting in the living room, her curled auburn hair springing back and forth with the tiniest of motions. The woman I've married has been as happy as she could ever be every single day of her waking life, every inch of her is radiant giving off a light that can only be matched by the sun in brilliance. Every day she is the happiest she's ever been.

That should bother me, my wife is just as happy today as she was on our wedding day. She's just as happy today as when our son was born. She's just as happy today as when her father died.

That's should bother me. I should think that it's a shame, but all I feel is apathy. It's a beautiful day, I'm sitting in the living room with the sun shining, my kids are healthy and sleeping peacefully upstairs. This should be wonderful, I should feel happy but I just don't care. I don't care about anything. This is my reality.

Sitting on my couch, next to her, I open up the New York Times. The headline reads "President Impeached" in black bold. Well that was inevitable, ever since he'd chosen to mourn his son's death, the country had been in a downward spiral.

"President was Impeached," I mutter while perusing the day's news.

"Wonderful dear," she says beaming.

Silence and flipping pages. Blue Jays are bouncing around outside. I hear their chirping every day, it's such a distraction.

"James, we need to talk, "

"Hmm?", I say distracted by my paper.

"It's important, can you put that down for a second?"

"Just a second dear, almost done."

"James, I want a divorce," She said, smiling on the couch.

Well this is a problem. I fold my paper, and look at her. She is ecstatic as always.

"Can I ask why?"

"The fact that you even need to shows, you're not in touch with me," she laughs after saying that.

"What are you even talking about, you're as happy as you've always been."

"There's more to life than happiness James, I want to see things and go on adventures! I want to do all these things and all we do is sit here, doing the same thing week after week."

There it is again, the naivete of the blissful.

"What difference would it make," I ask, "You'll won't be any happier."

" That might be true, but I want to associate my happiness with things!", she exclaims.

I open the New York Times again, silence and flipping pages.

"Well if that's how you feel, we'll talk to the lawyer on Monday and draw up the paperwork."

More flipping, more silence. I stop reading for a second to look at her. The sun shining against her auburn hair.

"Is that ok with you," I ask.

She's happy, delighted, in bliss, yet her soft-spoken response betrays a sense of defeat. "Wonderful, we'll have to talk to the kids."

Must be a trick of the morning light; against her radiance, in her eyes, for a second, I see the trace of sorrow.

#writing prompt #short story #fiction #writing

[moroccanred]

Legal opinions on 2011 ALS TJS Surrogacy case.

Disclaimer, this is rambling, I do not claim to be constitutionally informed. I am not a lawyer and might be woefully ignorant. 

Surrogacy is a complicated issue that has recently emerged with advances in modern medical technology. These advances have spurred on legal questions concerning the nature of parental rights, and the capacity of the state to mediate relations between parent and child. While many individuals think that this is often a personal decision, the state makes claims that it has a legitimate right to involve itself in surrogacy issues in order to preserve the well being of the child and protect the rights of the woman that carries the baby to term.

The central legal questions behind the 2011 TJS/ALS case reside within multiple spheres. The plaintiffs argued that there was an explicit double standard which was evident in the restrictions placed on women attempting to become mothers for children they had not carried to term. While New Jersey courts ruled that it was impossible for women to become mothers for children at birth, it explicitly granted this right to fathers who were genetically unrelated in  NJSA section 9:17-43 to 44. The only avenue unrelated mothers have in becoming parents of children born through surrogacy in New Jersey is adoption. This limitation was claimed to be a violation of the New Jersey equal protections clause.  Other legal questions that stem from the case involve consent and whether parties can agree to pre-birth contracts over such an emotional and longstanding issue.  At the side of these issues, questions on how parenthood is conferred also exist. The New Jersey court recognizes gestation as the act that confers parenting as opposed to intent. Despite the well articulated arguments made by New Jersey courts, the 2011 case was wrongly decided.

While the 2011 court decision claims to scrutinize equal protections based on biological distinctions as opposed to gendered stereotypes, there is still an enormous amount of sexual discrimination and presumption that exists within the legal standards. One of the central arguments behind the decision is that the NJSA law does not explicitly address the rights of surrogate women therefore there is an interest in deferring to conservative regulation when determining parenthood for women. The court argued that it is merely observing modern legislative standard and that even though the legislature has chosen to deal with the biological nuances of male parenting, this does not mean there is a violation of equal protections because a legislature has the right to make legal changes in an incremental manner.

“The Legislature is allowed to proceed incrementally in addressing the parentage issues presented by one form of reproductive procedure without also addressing those raised by other new reproductive procedures.” (TJS/ALS)

It is undeniable that biological differences between men and females exist,  the very existence of these biological differences demands legislative attention. When the legislature only looks into issues of male parenting and artificial insemination by men, granting biologically unrelated fathers a multitude of avenues to attain parenthood without adoption while ignoring the unique circumstances of women, that is legislative discrimination. This is especially evident since these issues have existed since 1988, yet there has been no formal change made by New Jersey legislature in the past 26 years. The legal precedent for female surrogacy rights for 26 years has been to defer to the most conservative avenue possible; adoption, in order to attain motherhood.

This issue is especially troubling when considering the nature of consent. One of the precedents set by the Baby M case in 1988 was that prebirth surrogacy contracts were not viable because of the necessity of a 72 hour waiting period to allow the gestational mother to acclimate herself to the child and the realities she was facing. In the 2011 case these issues do not exist, the gestational mother went through a 72 hour waiting period, attempted to hand over the child, and was still denied the right to do so. This was a clear violation of the rights of all parties involved and unwarranted interference by the state which had no benefit whatsoever. Allowing surrogacy after a 72 hour waiting period would not have voided the precedents set in the Baby M case as they are distinct scenarios, the past one being where the mother did not consent to handing over the child. It is difficult to see that the court is looking out for the rights of the gestational carrier when it denies her the right to make free and intelligent choices.

At the center of this legal conundrum is an enormous double standard regarding the conference of parental rights. New Jersey parental laws do not require men to demonstrate a biological relation to a child in order to claim parental rights, there must merely be a claim of intent by the father which causes the state to confer those rights unto him. The court argues that the central reasoning behind this is in order to bring the child into the world with two parents and in order to give the child some form of parental support from the father when he is required to do so. The court fails to recognize that while a gestational parent might be a mother legally, that does not confer unto her attributes that a mother who has intent to parent contains such as love and devotion to her offspring. New Jersey courts argued:

““the Court's rationale is equally persuasive here. Under Section 44(a), paternity attaches to the infertile husband because of the sperm donor's lack of temporal, physical, and emotional investment in the child's creation. This stands in sharp contrast to the surrogate mother whose parental rights are deemed worthy of protection and thus stand in the way of the infertile wife's claim to automatic motherhood.”

The assumption that every female that carries a child to term automatically has a deep bond with that child is just as sexist as the assumption that every anonymous sperm donor is completely emotionally disengaged from his possible offspring. While the surrogate mother did, in this case, bring a child to term it is clear she had little emotional attachment to it and did not assume the role of the parent. If the court is looking out for the interests of the child it is clear that the infant’s custody should have been automatically given to TJS and ALS.

It is curious that New Jersey legislators didn’t make adoption a mandatory avenue for all unrelated fathers, considering they have no genetic relation to the child. The standard of “strong likelihood” to prove paternity is ironically contrasted by the hoops and hurdles women must go through to retain custody of their children in cases where they retain a surrogate. The courts argue that these delays are impractical and that in many cases fathers are even required to provide financial support to their children. This is amusing because it totally ignores the notion that women could be providers too, and their enormous roles in the rearing of children, especially in early development. The legislative inaction and judicial conservatism that has driven New Jersey surrogacy laws for the past 26 years is undermining the rights of women throughout the state. Ignorance is not equal protection, and biological distinctions should not mean that a state does not have an obligation to balance the scales between both sexes.

#law #opinion #surrogacy #feminism #womens rights

[moroccanred]

Death Plays Dota

[WP] To keep up with challenges by mortals, Death must master every new game that comes up. But there's one game that he just can't figure out for the death of him.

Death squeezed his bone white hands over the mouse of his Razor Death-adder.

He pushed down the mic button on his mouse until he heard the plastic crack, "What in the blazes are you doing, DEFEND THE BOTTOM TOWER."

He had not taken a soul in an entire year. This was the only thing people played and he couldn't win one single fucking game.

Pings went off in the bottom barracks, his Phantom Assassin was trying to hold back a five man push from a fed team. His would be victim was spearheading the assault along with his team-mates. The tower went down, his hero soon followed, and finally the barracks was in ruins.

The pale phantasm growled at his team in a blind rage, "When I find you inept blithering idiots I swear I'll put you in the deepest pit of hell there is!"

His hero's buyback had been used, the death timer was at 2 minutes and his team-mates were farming jungle. In the silence, someone spoke up, "You mad bro?"

Fire shot out of the spirit's eyes, "YES I AM MAD, I AM FURIOUS," he screamed.

"Well then maybe you should get good."

Other silent team-mates started jeering at him.

"Luna: Huehuehuehue."

"Dark Seer: Jajajajaja."

The fire spilling out of him grew into a blaze scorching his alien-ware until it was melting into the ground in front of him.

He conjured up an Identical machine and booted it up in silence. Once he was on steam he messaged his target,

"XXDeath_001: I was lagging."

Minutes passed until a reply blinked life,

"TxsRngr45: Dude it's the third time today. I'm already in another game, I don't want an abandon. We'll play tomorrow or something, OK?"

Death sighed. He was tired, and the Summit finals were tomorrow. He was hoping that he'd earn some tournament drops while watching Na'Vi.

"XXDeath_001: Ok, I'll see you tomorrow James."

There was no reply, he was probably already in lane. He looked at his schedule, there was some 79 year old man that was supposed to have a heart attack in half an hour. That was probably enough time to squeeze out one more game. This would be the one where he turned his luck around. He tapped his fingers on the brand new PC and hit Find Matchmaking.

"That man's in no rush," he thought to himself, " Just one more game."

#dota 2 #writing prompt #fiction #shortstory

[moroccanred]

2172

[WP] In a time/place that has recently abolished the death penalty, a corrupt prison comes up with a novel solution to overcrowding: a 'specialist' who's job is to talk inmates into committing suicide.

2172

Dr Royce squinted his eyes to look through the camera monitoring prisoner 0. He was struggling in his straightjacket this morning in a futile attempt to tear away from the chair restraining him. Last week he somehow got loose and attempted to smash his own skull against the padded walls. Four prison guards had to restrain him before he could be sedated, one of them was missing a large chunk of flesh in the end. A regular prisoner would have been beaten half to death for that. Zero wasn't, he was too valuable. America's best kept secret.

0’s name used to be Miles, and he’d tried to kill himself 15 times before being placed in that padded room. Miles had no lawyer, no family, and no friends. The state of Virginia and the entire U.S. considered him legally dead. All that was left now was 0. There was no record of what he did, you couldn’t even find it if you tried, and even Dr. Royce didn’t know much about him besides the penchant for self destruction and his first name. He had tried asking him once, during a daily forced feeding, while everyone shuffled between their duties in the padded cell. There was no response, only sadness pouring out from the glassy eyed look of an animal. On some days he could swear the despair was palpable, reaching into him, clawing at his sanity. The two years until retirement couldn’t pass sooner, his ward was killing him little by little even without the sync. He grazed the bumps of circuitry on his neck and felt shivers run down his spine. The projectors in his contact lenses lit up with a handshake query and he jumped up in terror. “I should really stop playing with fire,” he thought to himself, quickly closing the prompt screen. Royce was a scientist at first, one of the best sync scientists in the entire United States, and sometimes; in the lonely tedious hours of watching 0; curiosity would tug at him. It was like that inexplicable feeling you’d get when next to a cliff.

“What would it be like to jump?”

“How would the fall feel?”

“What would the landing b-”

The third thought would be cut off by the brain checking itself: “You don’t want to kill yourself you idiot, why are you even thinking these things.”

Human beings were all prone to random urges of self destruction. He was no exception, he just needed to look down the cliff every day.

“ I wouldn’t do it anyway, I only sync with family”

For a sync scientist, Royce was very conservative. He was at a 30% sync with his wife, and a 5% sync with each of his children, and when he did sync with them, they were 30 years old. By then, each of them had a strong sense of identity. Even then, he didn’t like it, they had to beg him to do so, unity was all the rage with society nowadays. The human capacity to create something beautiful and warp in the most disgusting ways would never cease to amaze him.This technology was meant for family members and loved ones, leave it to the liberals to distort everything holy left in this world. Large groups of people had recently begun to sync together at 100%. The process turned them all into one person. There were of course limits, thats what his research was on, he was just surprised that it became applicable in his lifetime.

A sync between two people would create an entirely new person, much more intelligent than a regular individual.

A sync of ten would create something that could outperform even modern day AI.

At thirty cognitive functions would return to that of a regular individual.

At a hundred the overloaded input would turn a person into a drooling mess.

The fascinating point was the fifty mark. At 50 the only thing left was the primal essence of a group of people. Consciousness replaced by one predominant emotion, completely pure and self refining. 0 Was the last of fifty. Melancholy diluted down to its purest form, occupying every neuron, every thought, every experience in what was left of this man’s consciousness.

Royce looked at the list of syncs for today. There were 30 total. Prison mainframes had sync over-rides for every inmate in order to administer empathetic rehabilitative programs. They seldom worked. When they failed, Royce would sync the most violent inmates with 0 and watch the fireworks. 0 was the abyss, and it was Royce’s job to throw the unwanted into it.

He accessed the neural network of prisoner 77,216. Cameras blinked on to show him dozing in his cell.

A small prompt lit up. Handshake?

- Yes

Subject?

- 0

%?

- 05%

Confirm?

- Yes

Are you sure?

- Yes

This procedure is mind altering. Are you sure?

- Yes.

Royce turned off almost every screen until the only light in the room was emitted by 0's monitor, he had stopped thrashing about as the sync began. Every speaker was muted for total silence. Royce closed his eyes and laid back on his chair. One minute passed, and then... somewhere in the prison... he heard a scream.

#shortstory #sci-fi #writing prompt #writing

[moroccanred]

Submission for Reddit writing Prompt.

[WP] On the day you turn 18 everyone is given the first words that their soulmate will speak to them. When you receive yours it says simply "Welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?"

It was a freezing morning in New York.

I slipped into the local Starbucks for some coffee.

There was a new cashier today.

"Welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?", She asked, exasperated.

"Soy un federale, tengo un gato en mis pantalones," I replied.

The disinterested look on her face vanished instantly.

"You...", she said, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

For a second my heart skipped a beat.

"Do you know how many years I've spent working in Mexico because of your bullshit!?" She yelled, smashing her fists on the Register.

It was her. She was the one.

[moroccanred]

Action

My Rolex Said 10:05

I had missed breakfast, being on set was crucial. 

I am an actor. There is power there. 

I am an actor. There are three keys to mastery of my trade. 

I am an actor. First, always be punctual. 

I AM an actor. Second, always be professional. 

I aM an actor. Third, be No-One

Iamanactor.Most simpletonsintheindustryliketopretend.

I    am    an    actor. 

An actor does not pretend,an actor becomes, an actor fills up the emptiness with something for just a moment, an actor is the monster in your closet, an actor is the cop who'll take the shot, an actor is the sociopath with an evil grin, an actor IS the lonely old man... bitter with age. ACTORS ARE. 

I AM AN ACTOR

I can be whatever you want me to be. 

I....am.....an....actor. 

Because I am simply not there.. Andddddddd

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Action!

Fists raised, I swing. 

I can feel his nose give away.

He flies through the air, an arc of blood forming off the impact. 

                                       That will make a great shot. 

He falls to the floor, bleeding. 

                                        That was a perfect slide. 

               F e e l the motive. B e the motive. 

This motherfucking MONSTER killed my DAUGHTER

I wrap my hands around his neck. I can feel this demon's throat breaking as I squeeze Harder and HaRdEr.

Hands start to wrap around ME, I'm pulled offff. A strange man in sunglasses is screaming, "someone call the police, what the fuck do you think you're doing you psychopathic piece of shit!?"

Ahhhhhhh. It's the director. 

I grin. 

"Who the fuck is this guy? Is James okay!? James. JAMES!"

James is sitting on the cornder, his eyes are rolled back. Blood is spilling from his nose, now inverted into his skull. I can hear his breathing , labored, as he fights the blood pouring into his broken windpipe for air. Still in character, what a pro.

I guess that's why he's paid the big bucks. 

[moroccanred]

In Bed.

She nibbled on my ear-lobe gently.

Her tongue sends shivers through my spine.

Eyes gaze at me through the periphery.

Can't make eye contact.

If I make eye contact, I melt.

We've been in this room for 8 hours. Every time I look, my limbs lose their power. If I look again, I don't think I'll get out. 

       Brown, her eyes are brown.

Foreign lips lock with mine.

Our eyes stay open as we kiss, half-peeled.

Its a lazy gaze; it says, "I want to look at you." It says, "I can't stop."

Brief recollections spark in my dazed mind:

I would pull her from the audience, guiding her by hand gently to the stage. Her eyes would gleam fiercely in front of the spotlights.

"Do you believe in hypnosis miss," I'd smirk.

"Can't say I do."

Guess she was wrong.