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Theme Thursday Discussion:

>All top-level comments must be a story or poem.

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[Poem]

Before the throng I soon will stand,
Then forced to kneel with both hands bound.
There I shall wait until as planned
They hear the awful slicing sound.

What brought me here, you dare to ask?
What makes them do this awful thing?
I'm here for failing at his task;
I'm here for questioning the king.

An oath was taken, it was broken,
All of us were to forget
That such a claim was ever spoken
Lest a challenge we regret.

But know his rule is of the earth,
His power weak to the divine.
He overestimates his worth
His sentence nothing next to Thine.

My oath was to uphold His truth,
Against all who would test its might
I knew from when I was a youth
That power did not make you right.

I stood before the king and court
And told him of his oath before.
"Your fealty", he did retort,
"To I who run your life means more!

"Tis I who with a single word,
Can choose your future -- death or life.
And yet what is this I have heard
Of sympathy for my ex-wife?"

"Your Highness," I had calmly stated
As I stood before the crown,
"This charade shall not be aided
By my ministry renown.

"When you spoke upon the altar,
You pledged love and loyalty;
Just because your eyes have faltered
Means not from that pledge you're free.

"I have counseled by your side
Every time you deigned to ask.
You know I would never hide
Or shirk from any royal task.

"But here my conscience and my mission
Cannot help but intersect.
I don't support your blind ambition
When from my God you would defect!"

Anger poured out from the throne;
Integrity in him doth wilt.
"Since your treason is now known,
I hereby proclaim your guilt!"

My future does not give me worry,
For I can't control my fate.
It is sealed inside the fury
Of an ego run by hate.

Man has now declared it treason,
Put the sentence on my head.
I go to where there is no season;
I go to where there is no dread.

Here inside my final room
I face tonight my final rest.
Before you lay me in the tomb,
I write down this last request...

O man in Black, a hood for cover,
Swear you'll treat me like no other.
As I give my neck to you,
May your blade be swift and true.
Send me to the Judge of All,
He whose Kingdom shall not fall.
And as your king protects his pride,
I ask that I not leave his side.
So in his room display my head
And let him then enjoy his bed.

Those last two lines.

##Twenty Dollars

It was just twenty dollars.

Nobody else saw the man put it in the donation box. A receipt wasn't written. The daily total was going to happen in one hour.

Lindsay took the chance and grabbed the money.

This job was supposed to be about saving animals. Instead, it was about organizing giant parties for people to part with their money. Occasionally, someone jetted to a nature preserve and took tasteful pictures, but that was it. Nothing turned an optimist cynical faster than trying to help.

Britney was the worst of the bunch. Lindsay saw her new purse and watch. They cost more than a month's rent in Lindsay's crappy apartment. Other people whispered about it, and Britney had the same canned response when the gossip was undeniable. She was the boss; she deserved it for her hard work. Please. Her parents were the biggest donors. They got rich off of oil, and their daughter was trying to satisfy her guilty conscience.

If she really wanted to make the world better, she would raise Lindsay's salary. Altruism as its own reward was how suckers were captured. Her apartment lock didn't work, and she was always nervous about being robbed. Twenty dollars could get a new lock.

How can Lindsay be expected to perform if she was living in squalor. By being in a better mood, Lindsay would be able to expend more energy on helping the animals. It was the moral decision.

Just twenty more dollars

Britney said last week that the quarterly donations were slightly lower than expected. Lindsay almost told her to get her parents to make up the difference. Lindsay didn't even steal that much. It was only a little here and there. It wasn't Lindsay's fault that her glasses broke, and she needed new ones.

Hank sat next to her staring at his phone. Britney implemented the buddy system to be sure that nothing was stolen. She tried to avoid implying that it was her employees doing it, but Lindsay knew what Britney thought. The ungrateful, selfish pieces of trash that worked for her were ruining her good deed. They needed to learn proper morality from someone as sophisticated as Britney.

"I'm going to use the bathroom." Hank got up. Now was Lindsay's chance. She creeped slowly over to the box and opened it. A crisp twenty was sitting on top. She grabbed it to put it in her pocket.

"What are you doing?" Lindsay turned and saw Hank behind her.

"I can explain," Lindsay said. Hank moved beside her and took a twenty for himself.

"I need a new jacket. I won't tell if you won't tell," he said.

"Deal." She shut the door and sat down with Hank satisfied.

Why should she feel guilty? It was just forty dollars.

r/AstroRideWrites

"But your honor!" the litigant shouted.

"Mr. Crozbury!" The judge attempted to interject.

"That land is mine! I din't trespass!" Red-faced and haired Mr. Crozbury continued.

"SILENCE!" Finally Mr. Crozbury complied. "Good. I warned you already and I'll warn you again, sir that you are not to speak until I tell you. Do you understand?"

Mr. Crozbury nodded up and down.

The judge rolled his eyes. "You may answer my question with a yes or a no, for the record, Mr. Crozbury."

"Yes, your honor."

"Now. I was trying to tell you, before your interruption, that we are here today to determine whether your entry onto lands allegedly belonging to your neighbor Mr. Crump amounts to a violation of municipal ordinance such that the prosecution can assess a fine of no less than $25 and no more than $100 and an order of community service of up to forty hours. Do you understand the nature of the charges against you and the minimum and maximum penalties I can assess?"

"Yes, your honor."

"This proceeding will continue in a certain way, as has happened for over a thousand years hitherto and will likely continue for as long as there are courts and the rule of law. First the prosecution and Mr. Crump will speak, then you will have your turn, then the prosecution a chance for rebuttal."

"Yes, your honor."

"Good. Now, the Court being satisfied, the prosecution may proceed."

"OBJECTION!"

Another eyeroll. "Yes, Mr. Crozbury?"

"Mr. Crump is lying!"

"He hasn't even begun to put his testi-"

"I did not do nothing wrong! I was only there to pick some flowers!"

The prosecutor chimed into the fray, "Your honor, I believe the Defendant just admitted to the facts necessary to find him guilty by his last statement."

"Nuh-uh!" Mr. Crozbury responded.

"SILENCE!"

"No, I have to work, he's always had it in for me."

"If you continue, the Court will find you in contempt."

"Did you set this up beforehand? Are you and Mr. Crump friends? What do you know about the mafia? I object to this Court's jurisdiction! The prosecutor is biased, this is the wrong Court, I demand habeas corpus!"

"Bailiff, remove Mr. Crozbury. We will proceed without him, and I will address his behavior at the conclusion."

Mr. Crozbury received 20 days of community service and a $100 fine for the trespass charge.

Mr. Crozbury spent the night in jail and was ordered to pay $250 after being found in contempt of court and sanctioned.

The following letters were given to Ms. Evelyn Schwartz by her nine-year-old son, Jonah, on January 30th.

​

January 18th

Dear Ms. Schwartz,

This letter is to let you know that Jonah has been misbehaving in class. Today while a fellow student was presenting our "recipe of the week", Jonah was not mature enough to handle the ingredient "grey poupon mustard". His giggling disrupted the class and was disrespectful to his fellow students, especially the presenter. Because this is his first offense, this is only a warning.

Please sign below to acknowledge the incident.

Respectfully,

Mrs. Fritz

There is a line at the bottom of this letter, upon which the name "Evelen" is signed in a third-grader's red-crayon scrawl.

​

January 19th

Dear Ms. Schwartz,

I hope by now you've read yesterday's "misbehavior incident" letter. Today Jonah brought it back with an obviously fake signature, offering the excuse "maybe she forgot" when I asked why your name was misspelled. I am considering this a new incident. However, I am willing to give him a second chance to bring this letter home together with the original and get your *real* signature.

Please acknowledge when you have read both.

Respectfully,

Mrs. Fritz

At the bottom of this letter, "Evelyn" is signed in marginally-cleaner black ink.

​

January 23rd

Dear Ms. Schwartz,

I honestly don't know why I am writing this letter considering you probably wont get to read it.

Your son, Jonah, had a minor misbehavior incident last week when he decided to have a giggle fit during a fellow student's presentation. I sent a letter home, and he returned it with a forged signature. I then sent a second letter, which he returned with a second forged signature. When confronted, Jonah told me that my efforts were "pretty cringe."

I am out of patience. This letter is to notify you that Jonah will be spending recess in the principal’s office this week.

Respectfully,

Mrs. Frtiz

The line at the bottom of this letter has been left empty.

​

January 30th

Dear Willow Creek Elementary parents,

We are excited to announce that our much beloved "Lions, Tigers, and Bears" field trip is just around the corner. Please sign below to indicate your permission for your child to participate. The field trip will include a visit to the zoo (lunch will be provided), as well as a stop at a locally-owned ice cream shop on the way home.

The date of the trip will be Monday, February 13th; this slip must be returned no later than Friday, February 10th if you would like your child to participate.

We're looking forward to a fun adventure!

Your third-grade teachers,

Mrs. Fritz, Miss Joy, and Mr. Whittaker

There is a line at the bottom of this letter, offering a blank for the student's name and another for the parent's signature. Below that, however, is an additional note in red pen.

Please see my previous three letters, sign, and return.

-Mrs. Fritz

Excellent poem! I hope to hear some pride in it at campfire ;)

There were one or two awkward lines here:
"To I who run your life means more!"
"Means not from that pledge you're free."
...I wish I had suggestions for how to massage these out, but I don't, which honestly probably explains why they're written the way they are. Still something to consider because I did have to pause and reread a few times to get the meaning and rhythm there.

My only other crit is a tiny thing; the first two lines of the second-to-last stanza both use the word "final"--this is just a tad too repetitive in my opinion.

As NicomacheanOrc pointed out, the last two lines are brilliant and hard-hitting. Fantastic work, keep writing!

Hiya astro!

I enjoy the blending of internal dialog and justification in with the narration; it really gets you into the main character's mind. So much of this story is...uncomfortably relatable, both realistic and a solid mirror to human psychology.

I noticed a couple tiny errors here; "get her parents to make up the different" in particular stuck out to me. As another small thing, the last two lines were particularly poignant and make for an excellent ending; I would rather see them on their own line for emphasis.

Great work, well-told. Keep writing!

…is little Jonah gonna be bear chow? O.O

Thank you for the critiques. I made the corrections. I'm glad you enjoyed the piece.

It was the white horse. I told her to stay away from that one. Don’t go behind the horse, don’t go in front of the horse, don’t look at the horse, and - for Christ’s sake - don’t ride the horse. But the horse was beautiful.

We never gave it a name.

When I found it, it was full of thorns, all twisted up and limping. Me and boy were on federal lands, tracking down a few strays. Couldn’t be sure if it was a runaway or born feral. But the cattle turned out to be a lost cause, so I lassoed the thing and fought it all the way back to the ranch.

I knew pretty quick we’d never break the thing. It’d charge right at us when we came up to the fence. It was a menace. She didn’t mind though. She’d call its bluff, sit tight on the fence when it ran at her. She didn’t even flinch. Usually, it’d pause long enough to take a carrot from her. And a few times I saw it sit tight while she brushed its coat through the fence.

It was a high fence, about five feet high. The white horse probably could’ve cleared it once it got healthy. But it just stayed. The horse was useless to me, I couldn’t work with it. But I didn’t mind keeping it, seeing how she loved the thing. Just so long as she stayed outside the fence.

I should have known her better.

She was face down. That’s how I found her last night, crumpled up just inside the pen. The horse was gone.

I turned her over and she was breathing, but her face….her face was always so beautiful. I’d known ever since she first smiled at me. But I don’t know if she’ll smile like that again. I didn’t want to look at her, but I did. I didn’t want her to be scared.

I sent my boy to get the doctor and they returned together just before dawn. The doctor told me not to worry. He told me they could fix things like this now. But he looked like he was holding back tears. They all left for town at first light.

I stayed. There was work to do, but first I went down to the pen. Her brush was lying in the dirt. At the far end, the end towards the hills, there was a section of fence with the top board broken. I went through the fence over there.

I could tell by the grass that the horse took a tumble on its way over. I followed its trail. Every fifty paces there’d be a matted down spot. There was blood too, more and more as I went.

I found the horse laid down by the creek, its head just a few inches from the edge. It was staring at the water. The creek was golden in the morning sun. I thought it was beautiful too.

Burning Issue

The picket line was long. The message clear. Equality for all! Chanted the disenchanted.

Our eyes blazed with barely suppressed rage; sisters were getting real about getting a fair deal. The factory had ground to a halt, and we keenly felt our muscles flexing in the silencing of mechanical beasts that fed on our labor. Female employees dominated our workplace. Cheaper by the hour! Boasted the men upstairs with dollar sign eyes and empty smiles.

First, they sent down a junior executive; his face turning beetroot at the lie that he had come to ‘negotiate’.

“Negotiate?”, I roared at him, after being informed there would be no sackings if we quietly returned to work. But we were tired of being good girls and he was ill-prepared for an army of righteous women.

“We’re not here to negotiate, we are demanding!” I continued. Not once in his young life had a woman spoken to him so assertively, except perhaps his mother. I took pleasure in seeing his mouth hanging loosely like a barn door blown open from a freak wind. With his Adam’s apple bobbing ineffectively, anything further he had to say caught in his throat. “Go back and tell your masters, we are here to stay until we get equal pay.”

The hapless young man scampered off, confused yet responding to my order. My order! I savored the moment like an exotic treat tasted for the first time, which indeed it was. I felt a brief moment of pity for him, but as they say, it’s the 70’s man, get with the plan!

I scanned the picket line and saw the exchange had briefly silenced the chanting, then after the collective gasp, it resumed louder and more strident than before, buoyed by our audacity.

Only Mary faltered and looked as though she wanted to hide behind her placard rather than hold it aloft like a battle sword. As a single mother, the young woman had everything at stake during this gamble to make history.

“Hold strong Mary,” I said, giving her a level look. “Our fear is what will keep them winning.” Smiling weakly, she nodded. Then lifted her sign only to half-mast so it still looked like a distress signal, but she stayed. How I admired her bravery!

By the second day, no one had broken our number, and it was the arrival of the reporters that saw the Big Cheese himself come down to speak to us. Bad press was the last thing he wanted, considering women were the consumers of his goods.

We had won! Triumphant we hugged each other, then marched through the gates of the brassiere factory. Tomorrow there would be a picket line somewhere else; change was in the wind.

Not a single bra was burnt during the strike, a misnomer about this period if ever there was one. Besides, we had only wanted to bite the hand that fed us crumbs, we all had a personal stake in the humble bra.

(WC: 498)

“Are you Casey Shen?”

“That’s me.”

“Electrical engineer, specializing in radio-frequency analysis, at Johnson and Rich Aeronautics?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Originally from St. Joseph, moved to Engelsheim for work?”

“Yup.”

“Excellent. Mr. Shen, my name is Miles van Recht, and I’m a prosecutor for the City of Engelsheim. If my reports are to be believed, you’ve caused us quite a bit of trouble.”

“With all due respect, I still don’t know why you have me here.”

Miles knit his fingers. “Have you heard of Nighthawk?”

A smirk crossed Casey’s face. “Course I have. Didn’t they force some politician to confess his crimes on live television?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Seems like a good person. Why are you chasing them?”

“Well, they stole $1.17 billion from Lawrence Waters.”

“Waters can afford it. Besides, didn’t you find it?”

“We did- in the bank accounts of over eighteen thousand of the employees Waters had just laid off. This case is grand theft on an almost unprecedented scale. We must bring Nighthawk to justice.”

Casey scowled. “I think Nighthawk just ticked off a bunch of rich jerks, and now, like a good little soldier, you need to make your masters happy.”

Miles pressed on. “Didn’t you work for Waters? Here, on your resume, it says you worked for one of his companies.”

“I did. So what? You think I’m Nighthawk because we both have some beef with Waters? I can give you eighteen thousand others who do.”

Miles shook his head. “I’m not done yet. Nighthawk also unlawfully breached Waters’s privacy.” He pulled out a small circuit board. “Do you know what this is?”

Casey peered closely at it. “I do, but any tinkerer worth their salt could tell you it’s a camera.” He pointed at the lens.

“It’s not just a camera. It transmits a video stream wirelessly to an off-board recording device, which can be anywhere within five hundred yards of it.”

“Your point?”

“Well, it’d take a pretty skilled electrical engineer to rig up something like this, wouldn’t it? Perhaps one with a background in radio transmissions?”

Casey shook his head. “You really think I’m Nighthawk.”

“You seem a likely candidate.”

“So, based on that, you barge into my home in the dead of night, haul me away in cuffs, and interrogate me in this dungeon?”

“Mr. Shen-”

“What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“Calm down, Mr. Shen.”

“Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining when they helped you catch the art forger, or bring down that trafficking ring. Or didn’t you see those calling cards Nighthawk left for you?”

“Nighthawk is one of the biggest thieves of all time!”

“So is Waters! You don’t become as rich as he is without being one.” Casey took a deep breath, and leaned forward. “You're a man of justice, Prosecutor van Recht. I trust you will bring in the right thief."

WC: 476. Feedback welcome!

Alec checked the calendar on his terminal for the third time this shift. It still told him the same story. Six days until he could call home. Six days until he could see his wife again. Six days until he could stroke his crooked fingers on the cold, glass monitor and tell her that he loved her.

"We have incoming."

Alec closed the calendar and shot a look at his shift partner. Cynthia's face was round and flushed from the effects of null gravity, yet it still showed her concern. A drop of sweat beaded on her brow before slowly drifting away toward the nearest ventilation intake.

"We don't have an arrival scheduled today." Alec pulled up the month's flight plans, "We shouldn't-"

"It's there." Cynthia said, "Confirmed ping on something large, Pendelton-Class or larger. Profile isn't registering. Wait... we're getting a comm request."

Alec pulled up the proper menu and punched accept before Cynthia could dither over it. She was always a ditherer. She actually fit this do-nothing, decide-nothing life of an outer-Neptune fuel depot.

"Station ONFD-Polar 7, this is Captain Heymark of the Grand Return, to whom am I speaking?"

Alec punched his comm response key with a bit more force than was necessary, "Grand Return, you are performing an unscheduled arrival and WILL be fined for it. Please transmit your IonaCorp security code now to begin docking sequence."

"Negative, Station." Captain Heymark's voice shuddered with static over the line, "Grand Return is not a IonaCorp vessel."

"The fucking shit!" Cynthia shrieked and threw her headset down, "Pirates! It's bloody pirates! Arm the defenses!"

Alec bit his lip, fingers hovering over the command line for an armed response, but he keyed the comms first.

"Captain, this is an IonaCorp station. If you are not an IonaCorp indentured vessel, then we must ask you to alter your trajectory and move on."

Silence held the air for a moment, punctuated only by Cynthia's soft cursing, and the occasional burst of static from the empty line.

"Station, how long has it been?"

"...What?"

"Since you've seen your family? How long since you've been paid a proper amount?" Captain Heymark breathed on his microphone, producing a burst of static, "How long since you saw a doctor? Had a calcium transfer? Have your bones started to warp yet? Are your fingers and toes curling in?"

Alec shook as he looked at his hands.

"Grand Return has a full medical bay prepared to treat you. We also have an Earthcom transmitter onboard."

"Bullshit!" Cynthia screamed over the line, "Pirate's lies!"

"No lies. Pirates wouldn't come this far out. Nobody comes this far out."

Cynthia paused.

"Then who would?"

"In a word... revolutionaries. We want something better for the workers of the great dark."

Alec tapped his hands on the side of his keyboard, mind weighing on the calendar, his hands, the size of the ship on radar profile.

"Grand Return... You are cleared to dock."

WHO MAKES THE LAW?

Clara woke up from her bed with a splitting migraine.

For five solid days, there was nothing but the clanging echoes of metal yelling out from John Humphrey’s barn.

A constant chorus of,

CLANG-CLANG

CLANG-CLANG

CLANG-CLANG

Well, Mrs. Humphrey had enough of it.

“John!” She shrills. “John, that’s enough!” Running into his shop with wild arms waving.

“I can’t take it anymore!!” She cupped hands over her ears, elbows out.

John’s lips move with no sound. The proud have forged a lie against me

John continues to work.

CLANG-CLANG

Clara steps towards the workbench and yells, “I’ve sent for Sheriff Carson to lock you away for disturbance of the peace!”

Their heart is as fat as grease; but I delight in thy law.

CLANG-CLANG

Clara slaps him hard across the cheek, “WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING TO ME!?”

It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes.

CLANG-CLANG

She’s had enough. Clara forcibly grabs John by the wrist to stop the banging, and a struggle begins. Fighting for control. Of the hammer, yes, but its not just about the hammer. They’ve been having spats for months now. The bruises and scratches on John’s body confirm it.

“JOHN! JOHN, LET GO!!”

Suddenly, Sherriff Carson bursts through the entryway of the barn, sliding on his boots and holding onto his Stetson. “What’s with all this commotion!”

John releases his grip on the hammer, “So glad you could make it, Sherriff.” John notes the Sherriff’s trousers and belt are undone and his shirt not entirely tucked in. “Boy, you sure did get here fast.”

The wicked have waited for me to destroy me: but I will consider thy testimonies.

The Sherriff with twang, “Law declares I need bring you in for assault against your wife and for disorderly conduct.”

“The law!?” John eye-rolls, “Whose Law? There is no law in the West! The ‘law’ that you, man, have created, is not GOD’S LAW. Your law is merely the consensus whim of the citizens, blown in today, and will be gone like a tumbleweed tomorrow.”

Depart from me, ye evildoers: for I will keep the commandments of my God.

“I made this specially for you.” John pats a steel-plated revolver at his waist, with the Sixth Commandment carved into the handle. And two bullets loaded into the chamber—one for each of them.

“Now, John.” Sherriff thrusts one palm straight out and the other goes to his own holster. “Think about this.”

Psalms 119.

Both men ready to fire. Both ready to enforce their law.

But Clara, quietly now behind John and with the hammer, brings the metal tool down onto John Humphrey’s skull with full force.

CLANG-CLANG

John’s body slumps onto the two large metal slabs that was his project for the past week. A statuesque Ten Commandments etched into iron and ready for display outside the Nevada County courthouse.

>>>“Cookies!” A boy’s voice synthesized out of the makeshift android’s body.
I blinked. “I said state your purpose.”
“And I said I want cookies!”
“Can you execute the functions or not?” I said, losing my patience.
“Depends.”
“Depends?” I screeched.
“Yeah, on if you can get me cookies!”
I exploded. “I created you out of wires and circuits I bought with every scrap I could save for the past ten years!”
I picked it up from under the arms and started throttling it. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT–”
“Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh,” it started wailing. An hour later I was hand-feeding it a bag of freshly baked convenience store cookies.
>>> 

>>”What happened next mommy?” the android girl asked, fingers curling around the unicorn-patterned blanket and bringing it closer to her neck.
“The engineer learned to have empathy for Artificials, and the boy helped him achieve his dream after that,” I said, patting her head.
“What was his dream?”
“To destroy all the android factories.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Why? Why would anybody do that?” she yelled.
“Because he believed in us. He knew we could be more than just the tools we were being produced to be.”
“You know him mommy?” she tugged at my nightshirt.
“Of course I do. That children’s story is based on Mr. Gurney Slick, the current CEO of Humanoid Corp, the most trusted producers of friendly Artificials in the entire industry.”
“Wow! He sounds like a hero!”
“Yes sweetie, he really is.” I leaned in to peck her on her forehead, next to the bright sheen of the Humanoid Corporation logo.
>> 

>“Check out this crap,” I said, flinging the hovering holographic monitor to Joe.
It sailed across the kitchen table and froze behind his extended finger.
“More Artificial propaganda?” He sighed, swiping across the panels.
“I know. After such a scandal like that no less, can you believe it?”
“I don’t think I want to.”
“The nerve of these corporations! How can they believe a bunch of nuts and bolts can replace flesh and blood Joe? Flesh and blood!” I said, shaking my hands.
“I don’t know Karen…” He rubbed his temple. “What scares me is what they’re teaching our boy at school. We have to make sure he understands what they are.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have a talk with him after he flies home…”
> 

“Conversations like this are growing more and more common in upperground metropolis apartments,” I announced, clasping my hands firmly together. “Especially after the recent whistleblowers from Humanoid Corp engineers, public unrest about Artificials, new customizable android variants for home use, has substantially increased.”
I mentally queried the image database and several 3D holograms of leaked documents and gorey gifs of android violence popped out beside me. Time to drive it home.`
I pointed to a looping video, displaying a naked android staring at the camera with dead eyes, standing above a man clutching a growing red stain on his chest. “And this concern is not unwarranted.”

Thanks for reminding me why I don't want kids, Sevens. :)

Though I gotta say, I feel like Jonah may have a point here. He's nine; sending a note home from the teacher seems a bit much. I mean, Grey Poupon is just a funny name! (Reminded of reading the Horatio Alger stories in 11th grade. A few people in the class couldn't get past the name of the main character.)

Wait, do nine-year-olds know what "cringe" means?

Also, it's an easy word to mix up, but in this case you want principal, not principle. One is a human and one isn't if you want an easy way to remember it.

Love the idea you went with here, telling a story without telling any of the story! Well done.

‘Check Your Humanity’

—-

McKain! MCKAIN!! I got into my dream internship. My path to glory and professional success was guaranteed.

In vast glass fishbowl-like rooms, my fellow interns and I swam each morning to a hot desk of our choosing.

Even the privacy of cubicles was too much after the latest efficiency enhancement effort. ‘By removing dividers, we can fit an additional five interns per room. What progress!’ The office manager crowed when it was announced, their raise assured.

I put my Tumi backpack with its McKain corporate-branded logo down each day on the right-hand side of my desk as I saw the others do. My navy blue Brooks Brothers suit and black military-shined Florsheim wingtips made me feel at home. While not officially required, we all knew we needed to fit the mold.

But two months in and the honeymoon glow had lost its luster. I needed more.

It began when I stapled the PowerPoint decks vertically vs. horizontally. For the first time in ages, those ninety degrees felt like freedom.

That day, within the crisp cream walls of McKain, I found something more beautiful than the office’s art deco furniture and priceless art—my soul. That bright crimson jelly filling to the corporate donut which made me feel whole again.

Erroneously aligned staples gave way to sans-serif fonts in the afternoon. Caliente calibri was now my jam. I even imagined one day I’d go extra-risqué with heady Helvetica. Ta ta times new roman!

People noticed something was different almost immediately but couldn’t quite put their finger on it. Was it my insouciant swagger as I headed to the printer? The way my staples glinted in full silver glory in their cheeky placement as I handed them out at the Pickerel client meeting? Or perhaps it was that my clandestine activities had given me a newfound lease on life as fresh as first love’s kiss?

Whatever it was, I was drawing attention in all the right ways.

Until that fateful moment when my boss summoned me to her office.

I knocked gently, avoiding my trademark non-standard third rap.

“Come in.”

“You wanted to see me, Carol?”

Her face grave, she spoke in the measured tone middle managers reserve for when they want to project anger and control. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve heard some disturbing rumors today that you’ve, well, been acting human.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, ‘human.’”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought I was—“

“Not. Here. You. Aren’t.” Carol looked side to side to ensure we weren’t being watched before continuing conspiratorially. “Look, there’s a reason this place is nicknamed ‘the Borg.’ You can be ‘you’ in your downtime within reason, but not at work. Here, you represent McKain down to how you staple and what fonts you use.”

“You heard about that?”

“Yes. I mean, what’s next—off-brand colors in decks?” she laughed. “You’ve already gone too far.”

“Funny you mention that. I was eying a lovely #FF00FF magenta.”

Carol fainted, as I ran.

——

WC: 499

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Thanks for reading. Feedback is always very much appreciated

It's an old canard that science fiction is best when it mirrors reality. As is done here, and done beautifully. But more than the story and just as important is the formatting.

It can be very hard to paint with words, but if it's at all possible, it's done here. From the multiple levels of story-inside-story to the begin and end Unicode marks to the use of Courier to indicate the robotic nature of the future setting, all of it adds to the story that could be seen as just another sci-fi allegory.

I do feel like a layer is missing, though. The first layer is anti-Artificial, showing them to be as needy and demanding as humans. Then it goes pro, with a wonderful bedtime story. Then anti, with language we've seen used against several groups before... and then anti-again? Unless the last layer is meant to be a twist, I would've liked a fifth. Oh well, word count strikes again.

Incredible stuff, and I hope the rest of campfire enjoys it as much as I did!

Hey Menory, super interesting take! I liked the story in a story and exploration of AI emotions a lot. Dialog was strong too. That said, the formatting was very aggressive and in my opinion detracted from an overall strong piece. You might want to switch it to a little more standard format to avoid distracting the reader. Overall, really enjoyable though! :)

Charlie stood behind the stepstool at the bathroom sink, rubbing the paint off of their fingers. They’d have to see if little Sam was ready to stop painting so they could clean up the kitchen. They’d gotten much better at cleaning the past couple months. Having a five-year-old around will do that, they supposed.

Charlie reached for the soap bar. It would have to be replaced soon, it was getting thin.

Very thin.

Before they knew it, Charlie dug their fingernail into the edge of the bar. They tore off a strip and rolled it between their hands into a ball. Okay. We can stop now. We can rinse our hands. And leave the rest of the soap. Their hands stumbled, fidgeting, and rolled another. And another. Until the soap bar was replaced with a neat little pile of balls in the dish.

Charlie sighed. The compulsions were getting harder to fight.

Back out in the kitchen, Sam announced she was bored of finger painting and marched off to wash her hands after Charlie.

Charlie set up the stick figures, sunsets, and mountains to dry and set to work cleaning up the paint. As they scrubbed at the table, thoughts popped up unwanted. You’re not a good parent. You’re not even a real one. You got Sam because no one else would take care of her.

Charlie frowned and scraped harder at a particular bit of dried paint. It’s not enough that you love her, or you’re trying. When has trying ever been enough? You can’t even wash your hands right.

“Blech,” Sam said. Charlie walked to the bathroom and saw her spit out one of the balls of soap.

“These are bad peas, they taste gross.”

“Oh honey, you’re not supposed to eat those. That’s soap.”

“Ooooooh. Why’s it look like peas?”

“I–” Charlie flushed. “When the soap bar gets thin I roll it into little balls.”

“Ooo, can I try?” Sam jumped up and down on her stepstool. “I wanna make soap peas!”

“Well–there’s another thin soap bar in the bathroom in my room. I’ll grab an extra stepstool and we can go there.”

“Yay!” Sam marched into Charlie’s bedroom, clapping her wet hands with each step. She popped up onto the stepstool when Charlie set it down, and smiled into the mirror.

Charlie took the bar of soap. “You see how the edge comes to a little point?”

Sam nodded.

“If you stick your fingernail in, you can tear off a piece. Then you just roll it between your hands like this.”

Sam followed the instructions closely, staring hard at the soap like it would boost her fine motor skills. She opened her hands. “A soap pea!!”

Charlie smiled.

“Again! I wanna do more!”

With paint stains and wrinkled fingers, Sam and Charlie rolled the rest of the bar into peas, Sam humming and shouting “Ta-da!” after each one. Charlie looked up into the mirror, their head above Sam’s. And their thoughts didn’t say a word.

Ha! Thanks for finding the typo; one of those things that’s easy to know but even easier to autopilot your way into forgetting.

I also agree that a note home over giggling during a presentation is a little much. That’s why I forged my moms signature back in the first grade