Categories > Original > Sci-Fi > Farmville
Second
I dreamt for two hours. I dreamt of murder. For two hours I dreamt of murder. My own personal hell. Two hours of me, watching, just standing by, and doing nothing about it, as we burned them alive. And what was screaming, ablaze, was no longer human. It didn't scream like it had once been a beautiful blonde young lady, around her early thirties, with crystal blue eyes, a dominant left hand, and a loving husband of ten years. It screamed like a monster. Like it was something made in a laboratory. The smell, burning hair and finger nails. The skin you couldn't smell. It didn't have a smell. It was just wrinkled up. Kind of like dried fruit. The worst part, though, worse than the smell, and the scream, and thinking about how what was now a six foot pile of fire was once a human being, just like me, and just like all these other people who were setting flame to this little rebellion, was the look. The look that this thing had, it came up from it's pupil. It was this look of hatred, like we were going to stop burning it alive, and it was going to shake off all the flames and come eat us. It looked like it wanted to eat us.
Maybe the other guys didn't notice, or maybe they didn't care. Maybe they'd seen it before, and then maybe decided to ignore it. Maybe they all went home that night, watched some television, ate a big chicken dinner, and fucked their wives silly. Maybe the next morning, they all just woke up, and repeated the whole process. Maybe they all forgot about that girl. Maybe they all forgot about how she stood up in front of a crowd of people, arms spanned out their whole, and asked us to please leave. Told us that they weren't doing anything wrong and that they didn't want trouble. Maybe these guys all forgot it when one of them said, "Our orders aren't to leave," and then we all burned everything down. Maybe they'll do it again, and maybe they'll just forget it again. Maybe I should forget it. Maybe it'd help my sleeping. Probably not, though.
Later that night I would see a spider. It would be sitting in a web in the corner of my bathroom. I would look at that spider and wonder if it was custom in their society to kill innocent people as well. I would wonder if spiders hold miniature flame throwers, and burn the other spiders. I'd ponder the thought of spiders being like humans. They'd have their whole little world, just for spiders. The spider military would be so overpowered that even if the government wanted to stop it, they couldn't. The spider cults would curse the military, and all that would happen is that another cult would dissapear. Spider families would sit in front of their television everynight, in a cosey little spider living room. Father spider would be sitting on his eight legged reclinable chair, and little son spider would spin a web in mother spiders lap, and they'd all watch their favorite shows. They'd switch to the news when their Tuesday night sitcom was over, and they'd feel safe when they heard that the military had successfully stopped another inland riot, and were still manning the front lines outside of spider Madrika with no worry.
Then, mother spider would tuck the son spider into his snug spider bed. She'd sing him a quick lullaby. Something ironic, like the Itsy Bitsy Spider. Afterward she'd go downstairs, and argue with father spider about the countries war, because they disagreed. Because father spider was a coward, and thought that the military was right to be killing enemies inside and outside of their fair Madrika. Mother spider, however, saw it differently. Mother spider thought that it was wrong to kill their own people, and thought that it was wrong that they'd been waging the same war for fifty years, and that they didn't remember why they were fighting anymore. The two would argue their points every night, yelling and shouting, both of them ignoring everything the other has to say, waiting for one to finish just so the other could rant their point again. This would continue for ten years, until finally the father and mother would spider get a very sloppy and aggressive divorce.
Son spider, now much older than he was during those nights when they would gather round the t.v., would feel broken. He would constantly question what real love was, and whether it existed, for the rest of his life, unimpressed by his mother and father's endeavors at gaining his attention for the purpose of their still endless arguments. He wouldn't ever find an answer. He would adopt his fathers opinions throughout weekends spent with him, however, and every night he would argue with his mother the same point she used to argue with her husband during those long nights past. She would cry every night, thinking that her son was slowly becoming her ex. She was right too, he was, and twenty years down the road he would have a divorce with his wife, and he'd force his opinions upon their son every weekend, while a man in a black van watched the two, because the court case deemed that he could not be around his own child by himself.
It was sort of a vicious circle. The only difference was that after it reoccured another ten times or so, maybe the war would end, and the married couples might have to find something else to get a divorce over.
*
I immediately puke when I awake. Lu waits outside the door with a paper towel.
"You know, you're not my maid right?" I wipe my last meal off the corners of my lips.
"You better believe I'm not your maid. You can clean up your own damn messes. However, I am a nice person."
"Yeah, I noticed." I sink myself into the couch, and massage my forehead, which aches from a definitely rough nap. "What time is it?"
"Uh," she swings around, taking a short gander at the clock on the VCR before turning back to me, and then, in her upbeat tone, "About twelve forty five."
I write a mental sticky note that says to clock in two hours when I log that dream into my journal. I'm sure my shrink will love to hear all about it. I'm sure I'll get suspended for telling him, too. As I think about this the living room grows silent for a half minute, though I am unaware. Upon realizing the growing discomfort, I break the quiet, "Where's Tom?" I'm obviously uninterested, but it's not stopping Lu from telling me all about his day. She'll probably get off topic and tell me all about hers too.
"He's out in the fields, spraying crop."
"I've been meaning to ask," genuine interest, suddenly, "what's he farm?"
"Peas."
I admire how awe inducingly smart I am. "When will he be back?"
"Not until after five, at the earliest." She sits down on her chair. "He just left from lunch about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to fix you something?"
"I can manage, thanks."
Gasp, "Nonsense!" That's her cliche way of telling me I don't get to make my own food.
So she makes grilled cheese sandwiches, and conjures up some chicken noodle soup at the side. It's a bit of an outdated meal. We don't eat stuff like that in the military. That's not to say we get good food in the force. We just get stuff that's a bit more intricate. Namely, resurrection products. Stuff we get from the species that we kill during war. It's sort of like recycling. They've got about as many basic meals in them as a cow. But grilled cheese more than suffices.
We find ourselves in the living room again. The television's on, but neither of us are really attracted to the "how-to" show that's taken host to it. Small talk is conceived once more. Lu, whom actually is genuinely interested, asks, "So, what do you do in the Primes personal navy?"
"For the most part," another bite of my sandwich. I spit a bit up in a cold coiled cough that derives from the bottom of my stomach, "We guard the Prime. However, being a flyboy, I find myself on constant scout missions, looking over the air for rebellions, and personal errands for the prime." My mouth is full of cheese, I can't speak correctly.
"Personal errands?"
"Yeah," I stop chewing, suddenly thoughts come to mind. I focus on ignoring that flaming, hateful pupil. It stares into me, and I look away in shame. It slowly gains off, as I continue. "Like, uhm..." I think of something we did for the Prime where we didn't kill someone, "We did check-in duty at a gate for a military camp in Cloud back around April. Cars came in, we made sure they were registered users allowed to be in the armory. The prime was there on a visit to a personal friend, so we needed to stand guard for him."
"Oh, interesting, Cloud's very nice." Not really. It's boring. You're just really nice.
"Forget me, what about you? What do you do all day?" I scoop up noodles and broth. No chicken on this spoon, disappointment.
"I make autographical cards that the racers in Electric City buy. They'll have fans to give the cards to, and all." She grabs a card from the lightstand next to her recliner, and hands it to me, "It's a full time job."
The card is very well laminated. It says Chris Malcolm on it, right above the number ninety-eight, all in spiky neon green lettering, with the picture of a sprint model that's black with the same toxic green accent. As far as I can tell, the sprint is photoshopped from an actual race, and the car was taking a sharp corner when the picture was taken. There are some spots of dirt and mud covering parts of the number on the car, along with other decals for tire companies and auto shops, though it's sitting upon just the accent colored whirlwind background instead of being amongst an actual track. It's flexible, pretty, I can see why people would pay for these.
The rest of the day goes by. Lu sits on her computer making cards, I lounge around, waiting for the day to end. I eat dinner with her and Tom, whom doesn't say much, though Lu once more makes up for it, and we all converse as if we were a happy little family. I'm bored though. I just really want to go to Electric City, and see the races. I think about getting to Electric City the rest of the night, because then maybe I won't dream about spiders again.
*
They had us lined up, all on the deck. I had to keep my head focused straight, which was disappointing. I wanted to watch as we flew through the cloud and the moist thickened on the window pane. Grey was right next to me, and if I had turned my head, even the smallest fraction of a centimeter, she'd beat the shit out of me later. She always said it was out of love that she did such things, but I still suspect she was just glad to have a subordinate. Kroeffer walked by all of us, his boots, squeezing the feet they were assigned as tight as he could let them, gripped the chilling metal that the ship holstered. He advanced forward, step by step, looking all of us up and down. As he reached the end of our lineup, he stood a few steps in front of us, staring away, towards the back of the master hall, and more importantly, towards the Prime.
Gerard sat upon a sort of throne. His boney fingers, leathery and chaliced, adorned the neon arm of his glory. He wore a robe that claimed the same colors as our inland military, the familiar silver with accented striking blue. Gnawing his jaw, his humid tongue licked chapped lips above and below.
"Well, here they are. Your own personal gaurd, sir." Paul gave a crooked smile, his arm swung out to us.
The Prime, Gerard Traunt was his birth name, seemed like a giant on his throne. A long, white carpet draped the deck leading up to him from the door that lead out of the hall. He didn't have to walk on the same floor we walked, much less did he have to be in the same room. He was holy, so they said, all of them were, so they said, at least, and it was an honor for us to even be in his prescence. He stood up, bending his battered, brittle bones, using a stainless steel staff to hold himself up. It was as if, to us, he was the oldest giant in the world. Like he was going to turn to dust right in front of us, at any second, and the pile would be able to cover the whole room. He didn't, of course. Instead, he pointed out to us, and licked his lips again, before his breath began throughout the whole room, dry like a desert. He said simply this.
"You do..." his eyebrows arched, "As I say."
And that was it. He dismissed us all from the room, except for General Koeffer. As we walked out in a single file line, Koeffer walking up to the primes throne, putting his ear to the wrinkles that could be identified as the primes lips, I turned my head to the window, and went to a place of zen upon my eyes gracing the moist dew on the giant front window. Grey kicked my heel, and I knew that night would be a sleepless one.
I dreamt for two hours. I dreamt of murder. For two hours I dreamt of murder. My own personal hell. Two hours of me, watching, just standing by, and doing nothing about it, as we burned them alive. And what was screaming, ablaze, was no longer human. It didn't scream like it had once been a beautiful blonde young lady, around her early thirties, with crystal blue eyes, a dominant left hand, and a loving husband of ten years. It screamed like a monster. Like it was something made in a laboratory. The smell, burning hair and finger nails. The skin you couldn't smell. It didn't have a smell. It was just wrinkled up. Kind of like dried fruit. The worst part, though, worse than the smell, and the scream, and thinking about how what was now a six foot pile of fire was once a human being, just like me, and just like all these other people who were setting flame to this little rebellion, was the look. The look that this thing had, it came up from it's pupil. It was this look of hatred, like we were going to stop burning it alive, and it was going to shake off all the flames and come eat us. It looked like it wanted to eat us.
Maybe the other guys didn't notice, or maybe they didn't care. Maybe they'd seen it before, and then maybe decided to ignore it. Maybe they all went home that night, watched some television, ate a big chicken dinner, and fucked their wives silly. Maybe the next morning, they all just woke up, and repeated the whole process. Maybe they all forgot about that girl. Maybe they all forgot about how she stood up in front of a crowd of people, arms spanned out their whole, and asked us to please leave. Told us that they weren't doing anything wrong and that they didn't want trouble. Maybe these guys all forgot it when one of them said, "Our orders aren't to leave," and then we all burned everything down. Maybe they'll do it again, and maybe they'll just forget it again. Maybe I should forget it. Maybe it'd help my sleeping. Probably not, though.
Later that night I would see a spider. It would be sitting in a web in the corner of my bathroom. I would look at that spider and wonder if it was custom in their society to kill innocent people as well. I would wonder if spiders hold miniature flame throwers, and burn the other spiders. I'd ponder the thought of spiders being like humans. They'd have their whole little world, just for spiders. The spider military would be so overpowered that even if the government wanted to stop it, they couldn't. The spider cults would curse the military, and all that would happen is that another cult would dissapear. Spider families would sit in front of their television everynight, in a cosey little spider living room. Father spider would be sitting on his eight legged reclinable chair, and little son spider would spin a web in mother spiders lap, and they'd all watch their favorite shows. They'd switch to the news when their Tuesday night sitcom was over, and they'd feel safe when they heard that the military had successfully stopped another inland riot, and were still manning the front lines outside of spider Madrika with no worry.
Then, mother spider would tuck the son spider into his snug spider bed. She'd sing him a quick lullaby. Something ironic, like the Itsy Bitsy Spider. Afterward she'd go downstairs, and argue with father spider about the countries war, because they disagreed. Because father spider was a coward, and thought that the military was right to be killing enemies inside and outside of their fair Madrika. Mother spider, however, saw it differently. Mother spider thought that it was wrong to kill their own people, and thought that it was wrong that they'd been waging the same war for fifty years, and that they didn't remember why they were fighting anymore. The two would argue their points every night, yelling and shouting, both of them ignoring everything the other has to say, waiting for one to finish just so the other could rant their point again. This would continue for ten years, until finally the father and mother would spider get a very sloppy and aggressive divorce.
Son spider, now much older than he was during those nights when they would gather round the t.v., would feel broken. He would constantly question what real love was, and whether it existed, for the rest of his life, unimpressed by his mother and father's endeavors at gaining his attention for the purpose of their still endless arguments. He wouldn't ever find an answer. He would adopt his fathers opinions throughout weekends spent with him, however, and every night he would argue with his mother the same point she used to argue with her husband during those long nights past. She would cry every night, thinking that her son was slowly becoming her ex. She was right too, he was, and twenty years down the road he would have a divorce with his wife, and he'd force his opinions upon their son every weekend, while a man in a black van watched the two, because the court case deemed that he could not be around his own child by himself.
It was sort of a vicious circle. The only difference was that after it reoccured another ten times or so, maybe the war would end, and the married couples might have to find something else to get a divorce over.
*
I immediately puke when I awake. Lu waits outside the door with a paper towel.
"You know, you're not my maid right?" I wipe my last meal off the corners of my lips.
"You better believe I'm not your maid. You can clean up your own damn messes. However, I am a nice person."
"Yeah, I noticed." I sink myself into the couch, and massage my forehead, which aches from a definitely rough nap. "What time is it?"
"Uh," she swings around, taking a short gander at the clock on the VCR before turning back to me, and then, in her upbeat tone, "About twelve forty five."
I write a mental sticky note that says to clock in two hours when I log that dream into my journal. I'm sure my shrink will love to hear all about it. I'm sure I'll get suspended for telling him, too. As I think about this the living room grows silent for a half minute, though I am unaware. Upon realizing the growing discomfort, I break the quiet, "Where's Tom?" I'm obviously uninterested, but it's not stopping Lu from telling me all about his day. She'll probably get off topic and tell me all about hers too.
"He's out in the fields, spraying crop."
"I've been meaning to ask," genuine interest, suddenly, "what's he farm?"
"Peas."
I admire how awe inducingly smart I am. "When will he be back?"
"Not until after five, at the earliest." She sits down on her chair. "He just left from lunch about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to fix you something?"
"I can manage, thanks."
Gasp, "Nonsense!" That's her cliche way of telling me I don't get to make my own food.
So she makes grilled cheese sandwiches, and conjures up some chicken noodle soup at the side. It's a bit of an outdated meal. We don't eat stuff like that in the military. That's not to say we get good food in the force. We just get stuff that's a bit more intricate. Namely, resurrection products. Stuff we get from the species that we kill during war. It's sort of like recycling. They've got about as many basic meals in them as a cow. But grilled cheese more than suffices.
We find ourselves in the living room again. The television's on, but neither of us are really attracted to the "how-to" show that's taken host to it. Small talk is conceived once more. Lu, whom actually is genuinely interested, asks, "So, what do you do in the Primes personal navy?"
"For the most part," another bite of my sandwich. I spit a bit up in a cold coiled cough that derives from the bottom of my stomach, "We guard the Prime. However, being a flyboy, I find myself on constant scout missions, looking over the air for rebellions, and personal errands for the prime." My mouth is full of cheese, I can't speak correctly.
"Personal errands?"
"Yeah," I stop chewing, suddenly thoughts come to mind. I focus on ignoring that flaming, hateful pupil. It stares into me, and I look away in shame. It slowly gains off, as I continue. "Like, uhm..." I think of something we did for the Prime where we didn't kill someone, "We did check-in duty at a gate for a military camp in Cloud back around April. Cars came in, we made sure they were registered users allowed to be in the armory. The prime was there on a visit to a personal friend, so we needed to stand guard for him."
"Oh, interesting, Cloud's very nice." Not really. It's boring. You're just really nice.
"Forget me, what about you? What do you do all day?" I scoop up noodles and broth. No chicken on this spoon, disappointment.
"I make autographical cards that the racers in Electric City buy. They'll have fans to give the cards to, and all." She grabs a card from the lightstand next to her recliner, and hands it to me, "It's a full time job."
The card is very well laminated. It says Chris Malcolm on it, right above the number ninety-eight, all in spiky neon green lettering, with the picture of a sprint model that's black with the same toxic green accent. As far as I can tell, the sprint is photoshopped from an actual race, and the car was taking a sharp corner when the picture was taken. There are some spots of dirt and mud covering parts of the number on the car, along with other decals for tire companies and auto shops, though it's sitting upon just the accent colored whirlwind background instead of being amongst an actual track. It's flexible, pretty, I can see why people would pay for these.
The rest of the day goes by. Lu sits on her computer making cards, I lounge around, waiting for the day to end. I eat dinner with her and Tom, whom doesn't say much, though Lu once more makes up for it, and we all converse as if we were a happy little family. I'm bored though. I just really want to go to Electric City, and see the races. I think about getting to Electric City the rest of the night, because then maybe I won't dream about spiders again.
*
They had us lined up, all on the deck. I had to keep my head focused straight, which was disappointing. I wanted to watch as we flew through the cloud and the moist thickened on the window pane. Grey was right next to me, and if I had turned my head, even the smallest fraction of a centimeter, she'd beat the shit out of me later. She always said it was out of love that she did such things, but I still suspect she was just glad to have a subordinate. Kroeffer walked by all of us, his boots, squeezing the feet they were assigned as tight as he could let them, gripped the chilling metal that the ship holstered. He advanced forward, step by step, looking all of us up and down. As he reached the end of our lineup, he stood a few steps in front of us, staring away, towards the back of the master hall, and more importantly, towards the Prime.
Gerard sat upon a sort of throne. His boney fingers, leathery and chaliced, adorned the neon arm of his glory. He wore a robe that claimed the same colors as our inland military, the familiar silver with accented striking blue. Gnawing his jaw, his humid tongue licked chapped lips above and below.
"Well, here they are. Your own personal gaurd, sir." Paul gave a crooked smile, his arm swung out to us.
The Prime, Gerard Traunt was his birth name, seemed like a giant on his throne. A long, white carpet draped the deck leading up to him from the door that lead out of the hall. He didn't have to walk on the same floor we walked, much less did he have to be in the same room. He was holy, so they said, all of them were, so they said, at least, and it was an honor for us to even be in his prescence. He stood up, bending his battered, brittle bones, using a stainless steel staff to hold himself up. It was as if, to us, he was the oldest giant in the world. Like he was going to turn to dust right in front of us, at any second, and the pile would be able to cover the whole room. He didn't, of course. Instead, he pointed out to us, and licked his lips again, before his breath began throughout the whole room, dry like a desert. He said simply this.
"You do..." his eyebrows arched, "As I say."
And that was it. He dismissed us all from the room, except for General Koeffer. As we walked out in a single file line, Koeffer walking up to the primes throne, putting his ear to the wrinkles that could be identified as the primes lips, I turned my head to the window, and went to a place of zen upon my eyes gracing the moist dew on the giant front window. Grey kicked my heel, and I knew that night would be a sleepless one.
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