Selection from The Tenant's Sister:
Near tears in the living room, Ruby hung up on Virginia and decided she wouldn't answer the phone again for a week. Make that two, she thought.
She walked toward the kitchen to reheat her cup of coffee as the phone began ringing again. Ruby heard footsteps and looked up to see Johnny descending the stairs, finishing the top buttons on his shirt. Not noticing Ruby, he went to pick up the receiver.
"Don't," Ruby said.
Johnny eyed the phone a moment, then looked to her.
"Your sister?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Ruby said as she finally gripped her cold cup of coffee. Johnny shook his head and knelt down to unplug the phone cord.
**END OF SELECTION**
This short excerpt from the novel The Tenant's Sister (1957) highlights several technological advances that have occurred since partway through the past century. The most prominent, naturally, is the use of the telephone. While it is still possible to hang up on a caller, modern devices do not have receivers. Also, automatic caller ID allows us to see previous callers in the "call log" display. And finally, the selection ends with a cord being unplugged, suggesting that unlike a phone charger being unplugged, the device will not receive further calls until it is plugged in again.
Sharp-eyed viewers will also note that modern coffee maintains perfect temperature for weeks, the buttons on shirts have now been replaced with self-fastening microfibers that inform the Superiors of our coordinates at all times, and siblings are not allowed in this fresh hell that we call everyday life.
Also, nobody is named Virginia anymore.
Showing posts with label Dystopia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dystopia. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Thursday, April 2, 2015
The Crowned Warmbloods
The Crowned Warmbloods control the Vanguard section of town, not that you'd know it by that name. We write the laws there and choose which ones to enforce. Warmbloods protect the Vanguard's citizens and occasionally ask them for favors in return. It's not always an easy position to hold, but I take pride in it. I've never known love like the love I feel for the Crowned Warmbloods.
They accepted me out of high school, named me Wisconsin, and gave me a
sense of purpose.
One day on patrol by the train station, I recognized an old friend from my basketball days. We hadn't been very close and I hadn't seen him in years, but his sister was a source of many years of infatuation and I thought I'd ask about her. As I began to approach him to say hello, I thought I spied an expression of worry. He saw the Warmblood pendant on my collar before he saw my face.
"Thomas, it's me." I said, half waving.
"I'm sorry," he said, now looking at my face, but still not placing me.
"Darren. Darren Beachwood. We were on Coach Harper's team together back at Delaney."
"Oh, Darren, It's good to see you."
"I'm not surprised you didn't recognize me. It's been years. I don't even go by Darren anymore. It's 'Wisconsin' now."
"Wisconsin...I see." His eyes searched the streets around us.
"I was going to ask you about Beth. How is she?"
"Fine, fine. Married."
"Ah, that's too bad." I smiled and Thomas affected one in return. "I don't suppose that she'd be willing to leave the bum and have some kids with me, huh?"
He barked a quick laugh as a bead of sweat rolled down between his eyebrows. I wasn't sure what he had to be nervous about, but it was becoming clear that he might be a person of interest to the Warmbloods. I nonchalantly placed a hand in my pocket and pressed the alert button on my transmitter.
"I'm just kidding of course," I said. "Warmbloods are actually allowed to marry, though most choose not to. But children are ill-advised in the Vanguard."
Thomas looked at his feet and muttered something.
"I'm sorry?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that." he said. His chin was practically buried in his chest. I let the moment hang there for a few seconds and realized that I was smiling stupidly. I didn't want to let it fade though, in fear that the effect would be menacing.
"Say, I'm not keeping you from catching a train, am I?" I asked.
"No, no. I was going to meet somebody here, but I don't think they've arrived yet."
"Oh? Anybody I might know?"
"No, I don't think so. He's a new friend," Thomas said.
Behind Thomas, Whittier quickly made his way down the street, his Warmblood pendant gleaming in the afternoon light. He slowed and turned sideways as the approach closed in, his motions becoming almost balletic. I love the way Warmbloods move when they are alerted, fast and dangerous. I hope I look the same when I am called to action.
"Oh, that's funny," I said. "Here's one of my new friends."
One day on patrol by the train station, I recognized an old friend from my basketball days. We hadn't been very close and I hadn't seen him in years, but his sister was a source of many years of infatuation and I thought I'd ask about her. As I began to approach him to say hello, I thought I spied an expression of worry. He saw the Warmblood pendant on my collar before he saw my face.
"Thomas, it's me." I said, half waving.
"I'm sorry," he said, now looking at my face, but still not placing me.
"Darren. Darren Beachwood. We were on Coach Harper's team together back at Delaney."
"Oh, Darren, It's good to see you."
"I'm not surprised you didn't recognize me. It's been years. I don't even go by Darren anymore. It's 'Wisconsin' now."
"Wisconsin...I see." His eyes searched the streets around us.
"I was going to ask you about Beth. How is she?"
"Fine, fine. Married."
"Ah, that's too bad." I smiled and Thomas affected one in return. "I don't suppose that she'd be willing to leave the bum and have some kids with me, huh?"
He barked a quick laugh as a bead of sweat rolled down between his eyebrows. I wasn't sure what he had to be nervous about, but it was becoming clear that he might be a person of interest to the Warmbloods. I nonchalantly placed a hand in my pocket and pressed the alert button on my transmitter.
"I'm just kidding of course," I said. "Warmbloods are actually allowed to marry, though most choose not to. But children are ill-advised in the Vanguard."
Thomas looked at his feet and muttered something.
"I'm sorry?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that." he said. His chin was practically buried in his chest. I let the moment hang there for a few seconds and realized that I was smiling stupidly. I didn't want to let it fade though, in fear that the effect would be menacing.
"Say, I'm not keeping you from catching a train, am I?" I asked.
"No, no. I was going to meet somebody here, but I don't think they've arrived yet."
"Oh? Anybody I might know?"
"No, I don't think so. He's a new friend," Thomas said.
Behind Thomas, Whittier quickly made his way down the street, his Warmblood pendant gleaming in the afternoon light. He slowed and turned sideways as the approach closed in, his motions becoming almost balletic. I love the way Warmbloods move when they are alerted, fast and dangerous. I hope I look the same when I am called to action.
"Oh, that's funny," I said. "Here's one of my new friends."
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
The Kurlow-Lynnis Building
Travelers with a thirst for adventurous architecture and personal introspection would do well to visit the Kurlow-Lynnis Building in the Parkland West section of the city. The most fascinating aspects of this marvel of postmodern design are its famous Grand Leap atrium, the sweeping avant-garde mural ("Call to a Generation", by Greta Young), and its structural reliability on the sexual memories of all that pass through its entrance.
Design and construction for the K-L was financed by the Lynnis Group, at the behest of its founder's great-granddaughter, Beatrice Thromwell-Lynnis, whose great fortune was only matched by her endearingly endless sexual appetite. Lovably eccentric and often under the influence of cranberry eau de vie, her only request was that the building share her family name along with that of Higston Kurlow, the man to whom she had entrusted her virginity. In her final years, she reconnected with Kurlow and met her unfortunate end at the hands of his mistress, the actress Glyda Booti.
For much of its 75-year history, the K-L has enjoyed aesthetic praise and heavy tourism. It has been featured several times in publications ranging from Zeniths in Architecture and Telekinetic Monthly. However in times of mass sexual repression, such as the Great Chaste Divining, the Kurlow-Lynnis has been known to lay in ruins.
Design and construction for the K-L was financed by the Lynnis Group, at the behest of its founder's great-granddaughter, Beatrice Thromwell-Lynnis, whose great fortune was only matched by her endearingly endless sexual appetite. Lovably eccentric and often under the influence of cranberry eau de vie, her only request was that the building share her family name along with that of Higston Kurlow, the man to whom she had entrusted her virginity. In her final years, she reconnected with Kurlow and met her unfortunate end at the hands of his mistress, the actress Glyda Booti.
For much of its 75-year history, the K-L has enjoyed aesthetic praise and heavy tourism. It has been featured several times in publications ranging from Zeniths in Architecture and Telekinetic Monthly. However in times of mass sexual repression, such as the Great Chaste Divining, the Kurlow-Lynnis has been known to lay in ruins.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Cycles
"I'll be gone again in July," Greg said over the noise of the dishwasher.
He was looking out the kitchen sink window and Mary couldn't see his eyes. She looked to the calendar to see the breath of days between then and July, still months away.
"I don't know why you couldn't have just waited till June to tell me," she said. "July seems so far away. You'll probably change your mind by then."
"I won't," he said, still turned away from her. The dishwasher whirred into rinse mode. He finished the last of his coffee and set his daytime mug into the sink. He walked past her into the living room, but she could only stare at the mug in the sink.
Well, then I'll make it my mission not to care by then, she thought.
He was looking out the kitchen sink window and Mary couldn't see his eyes. She looked to the calendar to see the breath of days between then and July, still months away.
"I don't know why you couldn't have just waited till June to tell me," she said. "July seems so far away. You'll probably change your mind by then."
"I won't," he said, still turned away from her. The dishwasher whirred into rinse mode. He finished the last of his coffee and set his daytime mug into the sink. He walked past her into the living room, but she could only stare at the mug in the sink.
Well, then I'll make it my mission not to care by then, she thought.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Camptown Rabies
Camptown Rabies isn't actually a form of rabies. It's a degenerative mental disease brought about not by animals, but by plants. Most scientists agree that there is an inconsistency in the cell walls of these plants that cause them to take on animal characteristics. These characteristics run the gamut from hypochondria to hating a once loved neighbor. In humans, the disease is not fatal, but it does lead to an array of problems such as emotional distress, memory loss, and general sociopathology.
The name, Campton Rabies, comes from Stephen Foster's famous "Camptown Ladies" (AKA "Camptown Races"), a popular song from the mid to late 19th century. Scientists decided on this allusion for two reasons. The obvious first reason is that the disease was discovered in Campton, Delaware and was initially thought to be a simple form of rabies. The second reason actually comes from a line in the song itself that reads: "Goin' to run all day, goin' to run all night." This tireless energy would be the first sign that the human was infected, followed by random acts of violence and dehydration.
Incidentally, Camptown Rabies is also the name of a poem that was written in the mid-1970's by a frustrated youth named Paul Santerfield. The poem describes the song "Camptown Ladies" from the perspective of a rabid dog and it won Santerfield no friends in the English department of his university. However, the poem was eventually published in 1982 after he had become one of the best-selling authors of all time. Many scholars consider "Camptown Rabies" to be Santerfield's most frustrating work.
Your correspondent digresses...
In what has become the greatest signifier of universal consciousness, a human must only think about a plant that has Camptown Rabies in order to become infected. This amazing process has killed or driven insane most of the scientists on the project. In fact, only scientists with amazing skills of concentration are allowed access to key information.
Fortunately, most people have never heard of Camptown Rabies (the disease or the poem).
The name, Campton Rabies, comes from Stephen Foster's famous "Camptown Ladies" (AKA "Camptown Races"), a popular song from the mid to late 19th century. Scientists decided on this allusion for two reasons. The obvious first reason is that the disease was discovered in Campton, Delaware and was initially thought to be a simple form of rabies. The second reason actually comes from a line in the song itself that reads: "Goin' to run all day, goin' to run all night." This tireless energy would be the first sign that the human was infected, followed by random acts of violence and dehydration.
Incidentally, Camptown Rabies is also the name of a poem that was written in the mid-1970's by a frustrated youth named Paul Santerfield. The poem describes the song "Camptown Ladies" from the perspective of a rabid dog and it won Santerfield no friends in the English department of his university. However, the poem was eventually published in 1982 after he had become one of the best-selling authors of all time. Many scholars consider "Camptown Rabies" to be Santerfield's most frustrating work.
Your correspondent digresses...
In what has become the greatest signifier of universal consciousness, a human must only think about a plant that has Camptown Rabies in order to become infected. This amazing process has killed or driven insane most of the scientists on the project. In fact, only scientists with amazing skills of concentration are allowed access to key information.
Fortunately, most people have never heard of Camptown Rabies (the disease or the poem).
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