Powering up.
Booting back logs.
Gyroscope activated.
Memory booting … 80 percent. 90 percent. Complete.
223 opened his eyes. It had been a while since he had and his motors were nearly shot, so it took a bit longer than usual. Soon his lids lifted and his internal sensors activated.
Scanning.
Odd. The world seemed to have turned onto its side. No, wait. Gravity readings indicated that the Earth’s gravity still existed. The poles were registering from their proper coordinates. No, it wasn’t the world that had tilted. He sent a signal to his extremities. In less than a millisecond his 2333 MHZ brain processed the entirety of his situation. He had fallen over and was now lying on the floor in the workshop.
Scanning. Adjusting parameters.
Which way was “up”? Ah, there it was. Carefully he directed his arms to push himself from the floor, only to find that his right arm had been disconnected from his body. That made getting up a little more difficult, but somehow he managed. His internal weight distributors sluggishly kicked in, allowing him proper balance. Soon he was upright.
From this vantage he could take in the entire workshop. It was dusty and dark, much more run down than his memory recalled. The creator’s desks were in disarray. In fact it was not only just a mess, it looked as if there had been a tectonic disturbance at some point. He searched his subconscious security readings and pinpointed the exact time that his balance had been thrown off.
After a quick analysis he could his hypothesis to be true. There had been an earthquake of an 8.6 magnitude nearly two miles away from here. That explained his sudden fall and the disorder of the room. If his readings were correct the earthquake had occurred only five minutes before he had activated. The fall must have tripped him out of sleep mode.
Carefully he turned to look at the other prototypes lining the walls. Faceless and incomplete, they all were upright and appeared undamaged. He tilted his head down and scanned the floor.
Books, papers, and broken glass littered the floor at his feet. A large pile of books shifted as he scanned it.
Approach.
It was the creator. He was lying on the floor underneath a bookcase, which had tilted on its side. Carefully 223 grabbed the edge of the bookcase with his one functioning arm and dragged it off of the creator to get a better look. The creator was breathing.
Program search. Analyze. Assist.
223 shuffled to stand over the creator. He tried to search his programming for a response to this situation. He was programmed to be a personal assistant. He needed to assist, but how?
He detected an odd sound. Water. Rushing and roaring just outside of the boarded windows.
Tsunami activity detected. 223 grabbed an umbrella from the floor, opened it and held it over the now unmoving body of the creator.
Vocal chords vibrated, “watch your step.”
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
[May] Prompt 2: Of Fine Old Houses and River Rats - Sophie
On a narrow street not too far from the river, there stood a house that had been the most fashionable residence in lower Surrey. It's sturdy stone steps lead up to a grand oak door, framed on either side by a mosaic work of stain glass. The bright red tiles that covered the roof had shined in the late afternoon sun as it set over the bay, filling each window with a warm light that would not be stopped by something as flimsy as lace curtains.
It was said that the very wealthy owner of the hat factory that used to run on 34th street lived in this house, with his very elegant wife and their two very dignified six and ten year old sons. The hat factory, of course, closed like so many others during those terrible trying years. The neighborhood, that had once hosted the most cultivated of the cultured, quickly emptied, like the sad remains of a party when the food is all gone. The wealthy merchant lived there no more. He and his most elegant wife had had to learn how to cook and how to clean, how to hold a hammer and how to sew a seam, and had worked every day since to earn their butter and their cream. Their sons went on to become not lawyers and bankers but rail layers and bakers. One by the one the stylish homes of all of their neighbors disappeared as new factories were built, ones that made not hats but things like engine gears and mouse traps.
Many years passed.
The only witness to them now is one little old man. Sitting in the upmost top room of this once so elegant house, he long ago took shelter in the empty space left in the passing of time. This was now the only house on the narrow street not too far from the river. The stone steps were still there, as sturdy as ever, and even the solid oak door still stood, though it was no longer quite as grand, it surface covered in scratches and pockmarks and the remains of adolescent attempts at artistic expression. The patchwork of colored glass that had once been so carefully constructed on either side now gapped like broken grin of a seasoned boxer. The gleaming red roof had long ago blown away under the pounding force of year after year of hurricanes. The windows were still there, but there were no more lace curtains. Only one little old man, propped up against the wall, buried among his meager collection of thread bare blankets and lumpy pillows, a dingy white nightcap pulled down tight over his years. He had patches on the elbows of his faded lime green house coat, and holes in his soaks, but there was no one up there to care. After all, what was one more lonely old man hiding in the attic of a tired old house to this street? It had long ago forgotten everything else.
Even this quiet old man cared little for what had happened before. The ache in his left hip and the way the cold made his fingers stiff bothered him much more. It was only early spring. He had been taunted by whispers of warmer weather, only to be mocked by this current snap of cold wind.
It made writing darn right near impossible.
Scratching out yet again another smudged word, he struggled once more to patiently trace out the next word. Satisfied that the wet ink would not run this time, the old man leaned back and read out loud:
"And in the summer time the leaves will return, but the fruit upon the vine will have no fate but to burn."
"Yes, yes," he muttered. "Not bad. Not half bad at all. A fitting end perhaps. Though maybe it needs one stanza more," he muttered into the quiet, carefully laying the page with wet ink across his boney knees before fumbling to pull out half a dozen other ink smeared and bespeckled pages. He was up to ten pages now, a bit long for a piece of poetry, but he had spent hours and hours crafting out each line and he was as certain they were each and every one of them worth their weight in gold as he was certain that that blasted ache in his hip meant rain tonight. Which probably meant he ought to move downstairs. The roof up here had a slight tendency to leak, just a little. But there was nowhere else in the whole city that was a peaceful and quiet as that very top most room of that very antiqued house.
"GRANPA!"
Yes, so quiet and peaceful, right up until that little demon found him.
"GRANPA!" came the shout again from somewhere deep below. This time it was followed by the sound of stomping heavy feet as someone came thundering up the many twists and turns in the stairway that lead to the very top of the house.
Perhaps just one more stanza, just to round it out. Something about sparrows, perhaps. Or pigeons. He spent a lot of time watching the pigeons that came to rest on the window sill.
With a thunderous bang, the trap door in the floor went flying open and crashing back down onto the wood floor. A head of scraggly oily black hair popped out from its depths like a river rat surfacing from the murky depths below. A dirt smudge face followed it, graced by a most familiar scowl.
"Granpa," the boy stated sharply, as if talking to stubborn child or simply a buffoon. "You're up here. Again."
Granpa raise both of his shaggy eyebrows without glancing away from the page in front of him. He had been on the verge of something elegant and clever about pigeons and river rats. "Yes," he drawled. "I suppose I am."
The boy huffed. He shuffled from one foot to the other, still standing on the stairway below. "Dinner's ready," he announced hastily.
"That's nice."
There was another shuffling of feet. "Mom says to come down stairs."
"In a moment."
The boy scowled even more and folded his arms across his chest. "She says now."
"In a moment."
The boy sighed explosively, ruining the old man's best efforts to ignore the disruption. "Now!" the boy whined. "She says the rest of us can't eat 'til ya come down."
Giving up on river rats, Granpa turned to survey his great grandson most solemnly. As much as he might want to, he could not very well deny the boy food. A delayed dinner truly was far too cruel of a thing to do, even in the pursuit of art. That did not stop a sly smile from stretching across his face. 'Very well," he conceded, "but first! You will allow me to read to you my most latest work!"
The boy actually blanched, looking very much like a fabled ghost behind his black bangs. "No, Granpa, no! You've already read it to me. Like twice. Can we please, please just go down now?"
"Just my most latest stanza then," Granpa agreed, willingly forgoing the work in its entirety out of respect for dinner. He cleared his throat carefully, making sure there would not be any embarrassing bouts of phlegm in the middle of his oration. He read the lines once more, pausing carefully between each line to ensure they were absorbed to the greatest extend before finishing with a dramatic flourish that's inspiration nearly pulled him up off of the floor by its strength alone and thankfully just barely missed upturning his ink pot. Turning once more to his audience, Granpa smiled broadly. "Well, what do you think?"
It was a struggle for the boy, dear Granpa could see it. The child went near cross-eyed trying to hold it all in. "It's great, Granpa, really," the boy lied. "Now can we please, please, go eat?"
Granpa sighed forlornly and cooperatively shuffled forward. "It is at least better than the rest of today's work," he agreed.
His great grandson, bless his heart, simply was not able to pass up the temptation of curiosity. "How bad was the rest of it?"
Granpa cleared his throat once more and recited from memory. "Once upon a time, standing in a fine line, were nine mimes, all of a kind, who stood behind a sign, and whined."
There was a momentous pause. "What the hell?"
This time Granpa did flush, but only a little. "I said it was not as well crafted as my usual work."
"I don't get it."
"It is supposed to be ironic," Granpa informed him. "You know, frustrated mimes, standing by a sign? Oh, nevermind. I only wrote it because I was trying to think of something to rhyme with time."
"Huh?"
"I said nevermind!"
Granpa leaned on the boy's offered hand as he crawled his way out of the room only because there was not a railing this high up. It's lack had never bothered him when he had been a child living in this house, but he was beginning to understand why his father would never agree to join his sons in their secret hiding place. His father had had this house built big enough so that he would not have to crawl into such cramped quarters, but he had never been able to understand the allure of the unknown and the secretive. He had some hope for his great grandson to understand such things. The Lord knew the boy could not seem to help but stick his nose into everything and was more likely than not jump in after it head first. Unfortunately, Granpa had not had any luck instilling a complimentary deep love of poetry into the boy.
"You really gotta stop comin' up here, Granpa. It's not good for you."
"Hush, you child. And go wash your face, it is filthy."
"Is not!"
"Then what do you call that black stuff around your eyes?"
"Granpa! It's eyeliner. It's cool for guys now."
"Looks like dirt to me."
It was said that the very wealthy owner of the hat factory that used to run on 34th street lived in this house, with his very elegant wife and their two very dignified six and ten year old sons. The hat factory, of course, closed like so many others during those terrible trying years. The neighborhood, that had once hosted the most cultivated of the cultured, quickly emptied, like the sad remains of a party when the food is all gone. The wealthy merchant lived there no more. He and his most elegant wife had had to learn how to cook and how to clean, how to hold a hammer and how to sew a seam, and had worked every day since to earn their butter and their cream. Their sons went on to become not lawyers and bankers but rail layers and bakers. One by the one the stylish homes of all of their neighbors disappeared as new factories were built, ones that made not hats but things like engine gears and mouse traps.
Many years passed.
The only witness to them now is one little old man. Sitting in the upmost top room of this once so elegant house, he long ago took shelter in the empty space left in the passing of time. This was now the only house on the narrow street not too far from the river. The stone steps were still there, as sturdy as ever, and even the solid oak door still stood, though it was no longer quite as grand, it surface covered in scratches and pockmarks and the remains of adolescent attempts at artistic expression. The patchwork of colored glass that had once been so carefully constructed on either side now gapped like broken grin of a seasoned boxer. The gleaming red roof had long ago blown away under the pounding force of year after year of hurricanes. The windows were still there, but there were no more lace curtains. Only one little old man, propped up against the wall, buried among his meager collection of thread bare blankets and lumpy pillows, a dingy white nightcap pulled down tight over his years. He had patches on the elbows of his faded lime green house coat, and holes in his soaks, but there was no one up there to care. After all, what was one more lonely old man hiding in the attic of a tired old house to this street? It had long ago forgotten everything else.
Even this quiet old man cared little for what had happened before. The ache in his left hip and the way the cold made his fingers stiff bothered him much more. It was only early spring. He had been taunted by whispers of warmer weather, only to be mocked by this current snap of cold wind.
It made writing darn right near impossible.
Scratching out yet again another smudged word, he struggled once more to patiently trace out the next word. Satisfied that the wet ink would not run this time, the old man leaned back and read out loud:
"And in the summer time the leaves will return, but the fruit upon the vine will have no fate but to burn."
"Yes, yes," he muttered. "Not bad. Not half bad at all. A fitting end perhaps. Though maybe it needs one stanza more," he muttered into the quiet, carefully laying the page with wet ink across his boney knees before fumbling to pull out half a dozen other ink smeared and bespeckled pages. He was up to ten pages now, a bit long for a piece of poetry, but he had spent hours and hours crafting out each line and he was as certain they were each and every one of them worth their weight in gold as he was certain that that blasted ache in his hip meant rain tonight. Which probably meant he ought to move downstairs. The roof up here had a slight tendency to leak, just a little. But there was nowhere else in the whole city that was a peaceful and quiet as that very top most room of that very antiqued house.
"GRANPA!"
Yes, so quiet and peaceful, right up until that little demon found him.
"GRANPA!" came the shout again from somewhere deep below. This time it was followed by the sound of stomping heavy feet as someone came thundering up the many twists and turns in the stairway that lead to the very top of the house.
Perhaps just one more stanza, just to round it out. Something about sparrows, perhaps. Or pigeons. He spent a lot of time watching the pigeons that came to rest on the window sill.
With a thunderous bang, the trap door in the floor went flying open and crashing back down onto the wood floor. A head of scraggly oily black hair popped out from its depths like a river rat surfacing from the murky depths below. A dirt smudge face followed it, graced by a most familiar scowl.
"Granpa," the boy stated sharply, as if talking to stubborn child or simply a buffoon. "You're up here. Again."
Granpa raise both of his shaggy eyebrows without glancing away from the page in front of him. He had been on the verge of something elegant and clever about pigeons and river rats. "Yes," he drawled. "I suppose I am."
The boy huffed. He shuffled from one foot to the other, still standing on the stairway below. "Dinner's ready," he announced hastily.
"That's nice."
There was another shuffling of feet. "Mom says to come down stairs."
"In a moment."
The boy scowled even more and folded his arms across his chest. "She says now."
"In a moment."
The boy sighed explosively, ruining the old man's best efforts to ignore the disruption. "Now!" the boy whined. "She says the rest of us can't eat 'til ya come down."
Giving up on river rats, Granpa turned to survey his great grandson most solemnly. As much as he might want to, he could not very well deny the boy food. A delayed dinner truly was far too cruel of a thing to do, even in the pursuit of art. That did not stop a sly smile from stretching across his face. 'Very well," he conceded, "but first! You will allow me to read to you my most latest work!"
The boy actually blanched, looking very much like a fabled ghost behind his black bangs. "No, Granpa, no! You've already read it to me. Like twice. Can we please, please just go down now?"
"Just my most latest stanza then," Granpa agreed, willingly forgoing the work in its entirety out of respect for dinner. He cleared his throat carefully, making sure there would not be any embarrassing bouts of phlegm in the middle of his oration. He read the lines once more, pausing carefully between each line to ensure they were absorbed to the greatest extend before finishing with a dramatic flourish that's inspiration nearly pulled him up off of the floor by its strength alone and thankfully just barely missed upturning his ink pot. Turning once more to his audience, Granpa smiled broadly. "Well, what do you think?"
It was a struggle for the boy, dear Granpa could see it. The child went near cross-eyed trying to hold it all in. "It's great, Granpa, really," the boy lied. "Now can we please, please, go eat?"
Granpa sighed forlornly and cooperatively shuffled forward. "It is at least better than the rest of today's work," he agreed.
His great grandson, bless his heart, simply was not able to pass up the temptation of curiosity. "How bad was the rest of it?"
Granpa cleared his throat once more and recited from memory. "Once upon a time, standing in a fine line, were nine mimes, all of a kind, who stood behind a sign, and whined."
There was a momentous pause. "What the hell?"
This time Granpa did flush, but only a little. "I said it was not as well crafted as my usual work."
"I don't get it."
"It is supposed to be ironic," Granpa informed him. "You know, frustrated mimes, standing by a sign? Oh, nevermind. I only wrote it because I was trying to think of something to rhyme with time."
"Huh?"
"I said nevermind!"
Granpa leaned on the boy's offered hand as he crawled his way out of the room only because there was not a railing this high up. It's lack had never bothered him when he had been a child living in this house, but he was beginning to understand why his father would never agree to join his sons in their secret hiding place. His father had had this house built big enough so that he would not have to crawl into such cramped quarters, but he had never been able to understand the allure of the unknown and the secretive. He had some hope for his great grandson to understand such things. The Lord knew the boy could not seem to help but stick his nose into everything and was more likely than not jump in after it head first. Unfortunately, Granpa had not had any luck instilling a complimentary deep love of poetry into the boy.
"You really gotta stop comin' up here, Granpa. It's not good for you."
"Hush, you child. And go wash your face, it is filthy."
"Is not!"
"Then what do you call that black stuff around your eyes?"
"Granpa! It's eyeliner. It's cool for guys now."
"Looks like dirt to me."
[May] Prompt 2: Nightcap - Black-Haired Girl
"Nightcap
“You have to bring him his soup at exactly five o’ four, no earlier and no later,” explained the stern-faced Miss Abercrombie. She scribbled the schedule down on a wrinkled piece of parchment as she spoke, adding the soup schedule to the long list of other precise instructions I was to follow in her absence.
“The Master required everything must be done by this schedule. He is a peculiar man, but he has always been nothing but kind to me. Just appease him, and be prompt and pay special attention to detail…” she then began to explain the proper procedure for placing the soup and spoon diagonal from one another on the silver serving tray. She emphasized not to let the spoon touch the napkin, which must be folded in the shape of a perfect isosceles triangle and placed with the top obtuse angle facing the Master when served.
Needless to say I was intimidated. As I watched Miss Abercrombie bumble around the kitchen preparing the Master’s lunch I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I had different ideas for this job when I had applied. After all this was not anything like what I had been expecting. Upon walking up the long drive to this stately Victorian style home I had envisioned a lovely Mistress seated on a plush couch with her guests. I would serve them tea and small cakes while listening in on the gossip of high society. Perhaps I would have been taking care of the children, little cherubs with pinched-pink cheeks playing happily with tin soldiers and lacy porcelain dolls in a brightly painted playroom. The Master would have been a dashing fellow, a figurehead of society, who took his coffee and mail in the morning in a grand, dark and smoky reading room..."
“You have to bring him his soup at exactly five o’ four, no earlier and no later,” explained the stern-faced Miss Abercrombie. She scribbled the schedule down on a wrinkled piece of parchment as she spoke, adding the soup schedule to the long list of other precise instructions I was to follow in her absence.
“The Master required everything must be done by this schedule. He is a peculiar man, but he has always been nothing but kind to me. Just appease him, and be prompt and pay special attention to detail…” she then began to explain the proper procedure for placing the soup and spoon diagonal from one another on the silver serving tray. She emphasized not to let the spoon touch the napkin, which must be folded in the shape of a perfect isosceles triangle and placed with the top obtuse angle facing the Master when served.
Needless to say I was intimidated. As I watched Miss Abercrombie bumble around the kitchen preparing the Master’s lunch I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I had different ideas for this job when I had applied. After all this was not anything like what I had been expecting. Upon walking up the long drive to this stately Victorian style home I had envisioned a lovely Mistress seated on a plush couch with her guests. I would serve them tea and small cakes while listening in on the gossip of high society. Perhaps I would have been taking care of the children, little cherubs with pinched-pink cheeks playing happily with tin soldiers and lacy porcelain dolls in a brightly painted playroom. The Master would have been a dashing fellow, a figurehead of society, who took his coffee and mail in the morning in a grand, dark and smoky reading room..."
[May] Prompt 3: Marie - Sophie
Marie laughed to herself as she ran her bike full tilt through yet another puddle. Her pants were soaked up to the knee and her wet hair hung in her face, making her nose itch, but that was all okay. She might be the only kid on the block still outside playing, but that was just because the other kids didn’t know what they were missing. They had all run inside when the first sunny day of the year had suddenly turned rainy. Even Marie’s mom had tried to call her back inside. But Marie was tired of playing indoors. That was all she’d done for what seemed like forever. It wasn’t like it was cold outside –just a little wet, that was all. Plus it was fun to see how high she could get the water to spray up.
Sure, she didn’t have anyone else to play with, but she did have Brownie with her, and he was always good company.
Brownie was her dog. Her parents had bought him for her when she was really little. He was brown and white and came up to her knees. And just like Marie, he loved the water. So while she swerved around and around the sidewalk on her bike, he happily ran around chasing her and jumping into ever puddle he could find.
Or at least he was, right up until he found something to chew on.
“No, Brownie! Bad, Brownie! Drop it!” she instructed in her best imitation of her mother when Brownie managed to get into the trash.
It didn’t seem to work as well coming from her, since Brownie simply shook his head some more, gnawing away at whatever was in his mouth. Screwing her face up, Marie realized this was going to take more guts on her part. Without letting herself think much about just whatever it was that Brownie had found, she reached down and yanked it out of his mouth. It came away covered in drool and slippery in her hand, but she didn’t dare set it down. Brownie wasn’t very bright and would probably pick it right back up again if she did. “No!” she repeated firmly. “Bad! It’s dirty!” ‘Though part of that might have to do with Brownie’s treatment of it, more than anything. Slowly, Marie uncurled her hand and stared down at it. She tried to make sense of whatever it was. It was green, and black and slimy and looked like some kind of scary bug. But it wasn’t moving much now, so it probably wasn’t going to bite her. One of its wings was even torn, and even though it was kind of ugly, she still felt bad for it. Brownie shouldn’t be trying to eat bugs. Besides the ickiness of it, it just wasn’t very nice to the bugs. And the more she looked at this bug in particular, it was kind of almost pretty. It wasn’t just drool that made its wings shiny, and they did look kind of soft and pretty.
“Never seen a bug like this one,” Marie told Brownie. She glanced around the sidewalk and the large street that ran beside it. She wasn’t allowed to cross the street yet, even though she knew how to ride her bike. There wasn’t much else to see there, just some boring buildings and the road. “Do ya think it lives around here?” she asked. But even though she looked, she couldn’t see anything that looked likely to hold a bug this big. Unless he lived in the trash can, but that wasn’t a very good place to live. “I think we ought to take him home,” she announced.
Having reached a decision, she turned back to her bike. She still had that old jar in her basket from the last time they’d went firefly catching. There was a field behind her house that was perfect for that. Maybe her new bug would like to live there. She opened the lid of the jar and slide the sticky mass off of her hand and dropped it to the bottom. “Bugs need leaves,” she told Brownie as he watched her closely. “That’s what they eat. And maybe a stick to climb on, since his wing’s all torn. Come on, let’s go find some!”
Sure, she didn’t have anyone else to play with, but she did have Brownie with her, and he was always good company.
Brownie was her dog. Her parents had bought him for her when she was really little. He was brown and white and came up to her knees. And just like Marie, he loved the water. So while she swerved around and around the sidewalk on her bike, he happily ran around chasing her and jumping into ever puddle he could find.
Or at least he was, right up until he found something to chew on.
“No, Brownie! Bad, Brownie! Drop it!” she instructed in her best imitation of her mother when Brownie managed to get into the trash.
It didn’t seem to work as well coming from her, since Brownie simply shook his head some more, gnawing away at whatever was in his mouth. Screwing her face up, Marie realized this was going to take more guts on her part. Without letting herself think much about just whatever it was that Brownie had found, she reached down and yanked it out of his mouth. It came away covered in drool and slippery in her hand, but she didn’t dare set it down. Brownie wasn’t very bright and would probably pick it right back up again if she did. “No!” she repeated firmly. “Bad! It’s dirty!” ‘Though part of that might have to do with Brownie’s treatment of it, more than anything. Slowly, Marie uncurled her hand and stared down at it. She tried to make sense of whatever it was. It was green, and black and slimy and looked like some kind of scary bug. But it wasn’t moving much now, so it probably wasn’t going to bite her. One of its wings was even torn, and even though it was kind of ugly, she still felt bad for it. Brownie shouldn’t be trying to eat bugs. Besides the ickiness of it, it just wasn’t very nice to the bugs. And the more she looked at this bug in particular, it was kind of almost pretty. It wasn’t just drool that made its wings shiny, and they did look kind of soft and pretty.
“Never seen a bug like this one,” Marie told Brownie. She glanced around the sidewalk and the large street that ran beside it. She wasn’t allowed to cross the street yet, even though she knew how to ride her bike. There wasn’t much else to see there, just some boring buildings and the road. “Do ya think it lives around here?” she asked. But even though she looked, she couldn’t see anything that looked likely to hold a bug this big. Unless he lived in the trash can, but that wasn’t a very good place to live. “I think we ought to take him home,” she announced.
Having reached a decision, she turned back to her bike. She still had that old jar in her basket from the last time they’d went firefly catching. There was a field behind her house that was perfect for that. Maybe her new bug would like to live there. She opened the lid of the jar and slide the sticky mass off of her hand and dropped it to the bottom. “Bugs need leaves,” she told Brownie as he watched her closely. “That’s what they eat. And maybe a stick to climb on, since his wing’s all torn. Come on, let’s go find some!”
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