JASON FUHRMAN

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Worth 1000 Words | Episode 26 | Room

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Heading back to the apocalypse. What can I say? This was one I almost scrolled by before discovering an interesting little nugget. Definitely worth the stop.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Michał Sałata

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/xJrP0O

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

She had a garden. Flowers, not vegetables. Every morning, it called to her from an open window. A little dust and a few insects never hurt anyone. The sun billowed the curtains as much as the wind did, infusing it with a glow she could only describe as heavenly. A silly word, since she didn’t believe in heaven, but no one was here to judge her.

Breakfast could wait. Petals buoyed by the morning were much more filling. She kept her nails short. Dirt didn’t like long nails, and she loved the dirt. Worms nuzzled her fingertips as she buried roots. She smiled. She had smile lines from a good, long life. Sixties? Seventies? It didn’t matter. Age was a number. That was a cliche, but no one was here to judge her.

Not too hot today, so she could stay out here awhile, enjoy the warmth on her skin. She wasn’t afraid of aging, anyway. She was already aged. Whatever that meant.

A metallic ringing from upstairs through the open window. Why did she set an alarm if she was always up before it? She’d read something about circadian rhythms once, and how it was important for your health. She had heeded the advice, and was happy for it. Awake with the sun, only candlelight in the evenings, or a fire when it was cold. It was rarely cold.

She went upstairs to turn off the alarm clock. It was one of those old non-digital ones, and never seemed to turn off on its own. She supposed they didn’t make them like they used to. She smiled at her new cliche, hoping the thought would mark another line on her face. She decided lines were beautiful. If they were good enough for trees, why not her? Trees had to show their age on the inside while she flaunted it for everyone to see.

Upstairs, she picked up the teddy bear that rested on the nightstand behind the alarm clock. He slumped. Yes, he. Terrence. Terry for short. That’s what her daughter had named him. Yes, a daughter. She was off at school getting her philosophy degree. She knew it was useless in the real world, but it filled her daughter with such passion, and that’s all a parent could want for a child. Something that would make them feel alive inside.

Like her. With her gardening. Another useless talent. Flowers wouldn’t feed anyone. Except her heart. She went to the footboard of the bed, because it was such a beautiful view. Three windows, one directly behind the headboard and two angled on the left and right. This house was made in a time when people still considered the direction of the rising sun before building.

The age of the house was apparent in the wood floors, the walls where wallpaper seams bubbled. She could have changed it, fixed it up, but why? She viewed all things like she viewed herself. Let the years show. Some called it character, but she didn’t like that expression. Characters were fictitious, at least to her. She found that when anyone said someone or some thing had character, they really meant caricature. And this house was anything but that.

Outside the window, tree leaves looked like flowing kelp in a transparent ocean. She smiled. Another line? Of course oceans were transparent. Water was transparent. She supposed oceans weren’t really. Depth and silt and all that. Krill for the whales. Her daughter, Millie, because she hated Mildred, always drew flying whales. She asked her once why she drew flying whales instead of underwater ones. Millie had replied, “Because they have wings and a tail, like birds.”

She had never considered the genius in that statement, from a child of six. But now, looking at the picture above the nightstand of her, about that age, she appreciated it more than ever. Vestigial traits weren’t something children usually understood. She knew Millie didn’t, but her noticing is what mattered. Deep down, we all know where we come from.

Where did she come from? A place? Yes. A time? Of course. Those things weren’t a concern, though. Now was. Live in the moment because you’ll never know when it will be your last. Someone must have said that at one time.

She touched a spot on her mussed bedsheet warm with sun. She walked her fingers to it, pretending it was a pool of pure warmth. Dry but soothing.

Then it was wet. Her hand tickled with warmth, then was cold again, against metal, one finger resting on a trigger.

She was Anna again. In the rotted room with the dead woman who gardened lying in a garden bed. The dog she hadn’t named looked up at her with perked ears and doe eyes.

“I know,” Anna said. “We’ll leave soon.”

Curtains flowed. Heavenly, Anna supposed. She smiled. She went to the footboard where sheets clung like old cobwebs, careful to not distrub the shoe that looked so comfortable on its side. A couple of books were stacked at the edge of the grass. Her hand hovered over one, to dust them off and pick them up. She always loved those scenes in adventure movies. Instead, she decided to leave it. The woman liked to read by candlelight. Sometimes in the mornings, too, if the flowers didn’t pester her through the window.

Tonight they wouldn’t. They were with her now. She was one with them. Even though Anna couldn’t see her smile on the bleached skull, she knew she was, with a face full of beautiful lines that were drawn across a map of time, much more beautiful and complex than the world in which Anna found herself. A world of death and hunger and ruin.

Anna plucked a flower from the garden grave, felt the wind through the broken windows.

The woman wouldn’t mind. She had so many. Anna twirled it in her fingers, smelled it. It smelled of a garden, and a woman who had lived.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 25 | Just Follow the Fishes

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Another much-appreciated submission by a view. As always, thank you. This one appealed to my darker side, the only side I fear I have sometimes haha. But I took it in a slightly different direction. There is some darkness, but also light.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Donglu Yu

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/X6G13

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Hua’s tummy grumbled. She knocked on the door, which had been closed and locked a long, long time. Momma had said she needed some time and to go outside and play. Momma needed a lot of time lately.

Hua watched the shadows slide across the sidewalk from her seat on the second to last step that led to her front door, because the ground was extra icky, and Momma only cleaned the steps. Sometimes.

Hua’s tummy grumbled again. “Shh,” she said to it. It didn’t listen. It never listened.

Momma said flowers ate sunlight and minerals washed through the soil by rain. Since Momma called Hua her little flower, she thought maybe she’d feel better out in the sun. Silly, thinking that the sun would fill her tummy, but what else was there to do?

Stepping into the light felt like a warm blanket, fresh out of the laundry. Hua closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, imagining them stems. She wiggled her fingers, thinking that might help. Petals, of course! Her hair was cut short, but if she spun fast enough, it might spread to eat the sunlight. She did, face turned up, her hair lifting off her neck.

Then, the world wobbled, even when she stood still. Her tummy didn’t grumble anymore, but it didn’t feel good either. “Sorry,” she said to it.

When her head and tummy stopped spinning, she sat on the ground, which at least was warm on her bottom. She traced the lines between the tiles. They’d be much prettier with color. She went to her secret place, where she kept her collection of chalk, gum that still had flavor, and the coins she had found. Almost enough to buy the little plastic doll that smiled at her through the glass of the vending machine.

Chalk in hand, she skipped down the stairs. Now, where to begin? Momma, the prettiest lady she had ever seen. Momma liked to take naps a lot, like she was now, so Hua thought what better place to take a nap than out in the warm sun. She started with her face, giving her a pillow of the tiny step before the sidewalk. She drew closed eyes and a big smile. Momma had the prettiest smile.

Hmm. What would she like to wear? A dress. Not the best thing to take a nap in, but Momma looked so pretty in them. The last time had been at the park, on Hua’s birthday. Just the two of them, eating sandwiches with no crust. Momma didn’t eat hers, so Hua ate both.

Hua’s tummy grumbled, remembering those sandwiches. Then it told her it really wanted fish sticks. “Mmm,” she said. “Good idea.”

Hands and knees on the icky floor in front of the bottom step, Hua drew all kinds of fishes. Orange ones and blue ones and yellow ones, even rainbow ones.

At the top step, she regarded her work. All of them smiled up at her, but they seemed sad. She couldn’t quite place it, until she remembered the day at the pond, with the sun glimmering off its surface. That’s when the fish came up with their funny lips to tickle Hua’s fingers when she gave them breadcrumbs.

So, Hua gave them a sun, clouds, and a sky. They still looked a little sad. No matter how bright she colored the sun, it didn’t make it brighter.

The fish needed help. Swimming up steps must be hard. Hua had legs, and she couldn’t imagine how the fish could climb up without them. She’d seen fish swimming upstream on TV before. Sometimes bears liked to catch them and eat them when they did it. Hua would help them.

She worked her way up the steps, drawing smiling fish the entire way, the closer to the door they got, the bigger their smiles. But even at the top step, the brightest yellow fish kissing the bottom of her front door, something was wrong. They needed more help.

They needed her help. She drew herself on the wall next, putting her back to it to get her height just right. When she was done, she hopped back down the stairs to take in her creation. A stream of happy fish, eager to go inside, to be cooked up and fill Hua’s tummy.

She started her ascent. “Thank you, orange fish,” she said. “Thank you, blue fish. Thank you, yellow fish.” She went on thanking every single one, because they were giving their lives for her. She wished she could do more, but thank you’s were all she had. Other than the gum and chalk stubs, but fish didn’t like those things.

Hua made it to the top and knocked on the door. Lightly, so lightly. “Momma?”

She picked at the chipping paint on the door, and then picked up the flakes to put them back, because she might get in trouble if Momma saw. They didn’t stick. Even with spit.

Behind the door was quiet. At the top step was quiet. “Momma?”

No answer. She must still be sleeping. Momma was so tired all the time. Hua wished she could make it better. If only Momma would let her in, she would. “I promise,” she said.

Hua walked down the steps backward. Maybe it would reverse time and give her a second chance, because if she knocked too much or called too much, Momma would get angry.

Hua’s tummy grumbled. So loud it scared her. “Shh,” she said to it.

She whispered in Momma’s chalk-drawing ear. “I’m sorry you’re tired. I hope you feel better.”

Hua moved inside the stairwell, careful to not step on the fish, and looked up to the big dark doorway, where the chalk version of herself stood, under the sun and clouds with a smile on her face. Like her Momma outside. Like the fish swimming upstream.

Hua felt her own face smile, but it was hard. And she walked up the steps to try again.

Worth 1000 Words | Episode 24 | Crawling Death

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An artist I continue to come back to time and time again. His imagination was staggering in both its depth and darkness. Giger may have achieved more mainstream commercial success, but Bekinski’s work has much more depth, much more to say — in my opinion, and I hope if you haven’t discovered him yet, you will explore his artwork now.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Zdzisław Beksiński

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Mother had always called me a dog.

Before I knew what a dog was. Faint memories of her barking in my face, snarling, mouth dripping. Or were those images I concocted? Funny how memory works.

Before I could walk, which I suppose I was then, to a degree. Crawling, with my nose to the ground. Putting any vile thing in my mouth, to explore the world that most people trampled, uncaring.

Before the city burned. It still burns. Endlessly.

I don’t hate her for it. A game maybe. For her. Alone in such a small apartment with an infant. No one else to keep her company. To converse with. You can’t converse with an infant. All you hear is yourself, and perhaps the pop of saliva bubbles. Giggles if you’re lucky. I’m not sure if I laughed much as a child. I’m not sure if children laugh. I have heard stories. But there are few people left to tell stories. Fewer by the day.

I hear voices, though. So many. Far away, usually. Sometimes I will hear a soul perish outside my window. Soul. Mother used to call them that, when we’d watch them burst into flame or be cut down and then lit on fire. It was a custom to be burned, even for those who killed. She told me it was believed that a soul traveled on the smoke rising from the deceased.

Deceased. I like that word. I like words you can break to discern the meaning of by analyzing their respective parts. Cease living. De. The Greek or Latin prefix meaning “off” or “from.” Cut off from living. I learned that from a book. There aren’t many books anymore. They burn more easily than people.

Now, where was I? Many places, I suppose. I have to be, because I am only in one place. I cannot leave. The streets are dangerous. The air is dangerous. I have a fan that runs off a generator. Funny that I can still find fuel. I think that’s called irony. The thing that burns most is still abudnant. Abundant is the wrong word. Somewhere between abundant and scarce. That is where fuel is.

It sounds like I’m speaking of actual locations. Streets, maybe. I’d say, “Yes, fuel can be found between Abundant Avenue and Scarce Street.” Alliteration, that. I think. I do think. It’s mostly all I can do. I told you I can’t leave, remember? Yes, I think I did. If you’re still listening. I hope you are.

Now, where was I? Somewhere. On the third floor between two burning ones. If it were winter, I might be happy. I am happy. It is a winter of sorts. Flakes fall from the sky. Not white. Grays and browns. Sometimes reds. Yellow embers, which I prentend is the sun crying because it misses me. And I tell the sun I miss it. That’s when the embers usually stop falling. Usually. And I think I made the sun happy. I know I made the sun happy.

Now, where was I? In my room, because there is a window there. We have a window in the living room, too, but mine has a better view. I can see a sign that just won’t fall. It’s been burning for ages, rocked by powerful gusts of wind from the storms that pass by daily and force me to close my window and hide under my bed, because it might be the only safe place in this world. Monsters used to live under beds. I heard that once. I’ve been here a long time and the only monsters I see are outside my window. Sometimes they see me, and when they do, I hide under my bed, because I’ve discovered monsters are afraid of what hides under beds.

Now, where was I? Not under my bed, that’s for sure. I’m at the window. In my room, because it has the best view. We have another window–wait. I told you that already? I apologize, I don’t like it when people repeat themselves. Repetition is the enemy of … something. Or do I have that wrong? Probably. There aren’t many books anymore.

Now, where was I? On my balcony. Yes, today I braved the outside. I’ve learned to breathe ash. I think. It feels like I have. I forgot to mention the balcony. A fire escape they were called. That’s funny. More irony. There is no escape from this fire. But I am at the window, because I must watch Mother. Oh, yes, Mother is still here. She finds things. I made her able to find things. She inspired me when I was a child. She called me dog, so I made her one when I was bigger and stronger than her.

Now, where was I? She hunts. No, scavenges. How did I make her a dog, you ask? It’s a secret, but I can tell if you promise to not tell anyone else. All right. I let the fire burn her, little by little. It changed her skin and her bones. It made them resilient against the outside. I made her a coat of ash for the more dangerous days. She had a small nose so I tried to make her a bigger one, like a dog’s. It didn’t work. It never stops bleeding. That’s okay, because I found gauze. The whitest thing I’ve ever seen. She kept it clean. And when she doesn’t, I punish her and she knows to never let it get dirty again. She’s a good dog, Mother is.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Mother. See, I’m on track. Always on track. There used to be tracks. It’s how I gave her extra joints. Breaking them there. Again. Again. Again. It’s surprising what the human body can adapt to. Oh, here she comes. I can’t wait to see what she brought for me to eat and her to watch me eat. I never let her eat. Bad dog.

Now, where was I?

Worth 1000 Words |Episode 22 | Road / 022

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If you’ve read any of my stories, you’ll know that I tend to tell darker ones. No matter the premise, there is a pinch of tragedy. I’m drawn to those kind of stories, so I tell them. But with this one, I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to find a bleak or melancholic image and attempt to tell a lighter story. Something with hope, hapiness, or another color in between. Here is my take.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Serj Papadin

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/PoJdWy

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Headlights painted Highway 022 with honey-colored light.

Jake swallowed and dug at the center console for something sweet keeping his eyes on the road. Finding crumpled papers and sticky change, he glanced down for a split second, which was long enough for the car to drift slightly to the right and hit one of the many potholes he’d been trying to avoid for the last ten miles. Jake’s head hit the ceiling, and the liner he’d stuffed behind the visor to not sag, sagged now.

Lips smacked in the back seat. “What?” Morrison slurred.

“Sorry,” Jake said as he hit another pothole.

In the rearview mirror, Morrison leaped off his seat and repeated the impact. He slouched between the front seats, rubbing his head.

“Shit, Jacob,” Morrison said.

“‘Jake’, asshole,” Jake said.

“Jake is short for Jacob, asshole.”

Driving for eight hours straight, his eyes ready to crumble from his head, Jake didn’t have the energy to remind him that his given name was Jake, not Jacob. Well, not remind. Morrison knew this, just lived for the shit-giving.

“Better than a last name first name,” Jake said. “And your dad’s name is William, so it’s doubly stupid.”

Morrison grumbled and slid into the seat behind Jake, a thunk of forehead to window.

“Pull over,” Morrison said. “I gotta piss.”

The headlights flickered, losing their honey-colored luster, looking more like spilled piss.

Jake guided the car to the side of the road, thought about killing the engine, then decided against it since it made a funny sound now, and starting it at the last stop had been hard enough.

Morrison tripped out of the car and weaved his way to a twisted fence.

“Really?” Jake said eyeing the door Morrison left open.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Morrison said, trembling from the weather, the last few drops, or both. “Ho. Lee. Shit.”

Jake palmed away the condensation and squinted out the window. Outside was drowned in brackish gray soup. Gruel, really. Morrison was pointing into the distance, zipping up with his other hand.

Tire tracks cut through a rumpled sheet of snow up a turnoff through the broken fence before disappearing altogether. It was enough of a guide for Jake to see what Morrison was pointing at. Distant heartbeats of light specked the damp sky above a steep-roofed cluster of buildings seated around a massive tank. On that tank, stretched the ladder he and Morrison had climbed at the age of eleven. Clean black lines leading to a tower that–

“No way,” Morrison said. “Big Gulp Tower. The infamous tiddle tank of young Jake Lee.”

“Piddle is for peeing, not ‘tiddle,'” Jake said.

“Alliteration, Jake,” Morrison said. “Alliteration. Have a little imagination. I’m an artist. We have to bend the rules sometimes.”

“And it was because I drank an entire Big Gulp of–“

“Suicide.” Morrison said “The whole lineup. Every damn flavor. And yes, I know. That’s the beauty of it. A tower shaped like a Big Gulp, tinkled on from the after effects of Big Gulp, timed with precision. Irony, my friend, is powerful.” He said the last bit wagging his finger.

Jake got out of the car, drawn to the forbidden playground of his youth. Morrison threw an arm around his shoulder when he reached his side.

“Snowball wars,” Morrison said. “Packed with rocks. Cardboard sledding down those roofs. I busted my balls on that one right there.”

“You packed your pants full of snow,” Jake said. “Didn’t last long. You ripped your pants off batting at your junk like you were trying to kill a spider. Stumpy McTwiggerson–” That name hit Jake like a bullet.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Morrison said. “It was cold, all right? And we were, eleven. My balls hadn’t even dropped yet.”

Jake looked at his friend and burst out laughing. He retched it out, diaphram thumping, a laugh held in by past generations, released by him.

Jake straightened, wiped his nose, and sighed. “That felt good.”

Morrison smiled. “It did.”

“You think …?” Jake said.

“I think,” Morrison said, and then dashed up the snowy road to vanish into the absence of color.

Jake ran after at him, scooping snow as he did, packing it tight. Back against the wall next to a boarded up door, he peeked around the corner, blinded by cold and white and a stinging center made of stone.

Jake crushed his snowball from reflex. Eyes closed, caked with ice, he heard Morrison bellow the laugh he had a moment ago.

A crunch, crunch, crunch, and Morrison was there. “You owed me. Twenty-five years of interest. Truce?”

Jake blinked away the snow to Morrison’s pale-blue hand. He took it.

“Looks smaller,” Morrison said, taking in the structure.

Still holding Morrison’s hand, Jake spun him, tore his pants down, and heeled his ass. Hard.

Morrison fell face-first into the snow. He scrambled onto his back and pulled at his pants but couldn’t get them up. He burst into laughter again. “Go on,” Morrison said. “Say it.”

“It does,” Jake said. “I see Stumpy McTwiggerson hasn’t left the neighborhood.”

They laughed, and Jake helped Morrison up.

“Hey, it’s cold,” Morrison said.

“Not that cold.”

“Shall we?” Morrison said.

They climbed the ladder to Big Gulp Tower and stared at the featureless sky for a while.

“I can’t believe we almost missed it,” Jake said.

“It was destined. That glass of water at the diner was just enough, timed just right, to land us right here. Fucking beautiful.”

Jake didn’t say anything because nothing else needed to be said. He let those last two words linger, as did Morrison.

They left those words at the top of Big Gulp Tower, where they deserved to be left, and walked in silence, grinning like idiots on the way back to the car.

“Your shift,” Jake said and tossed Morrison the keys.

They got in the car, and it started flawlessly.

Morrison pulled back onto the highway and flicked on the headlights. They were the color of pure gold.

Worth 1000 Words | The Bigger Giant

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This was a fun espisode, finally able to tackle a piece of art by one of my favorite artists, Simon Stalenhag. I explain in the video, but I’ve read his books so felt that writing a story in a universe I was intimately familiar with as a bit of a cheat, as it would have informed the story too much, I think. Not necessarily a bad thing, but starting fresh makes it more challenging, and that’s part of the reason why I’m doing this.

This is also in celebration of his Kickstarter that launched not long ago, called The Labyrinth.
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1192053011/the-labyrinth-new-narrative-art-book-by-simon-stalenhag

I hope you check it out and support a great artist, and I hope you enjoy the story.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Simon Stalenhag

https://www.simonstalenhag.se/

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.

The Story

The hallway quaked. Plaster or concrete or something else trickled into Alice’s hair, and she stopped.

Jonas and Andy turned around.

Andy, the smaller of the two, shielded his eyes from the harsh overhead lights. “Come on, Alice. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Jonas sniggered, then masked it with a cough, then a sneeze, which could have been real considering the air was still heavy with particulate.

“We’re almost there,” Andy said. “It’ll be cool. Promise.”

Alice nodded and spit out her upper lip. A bad habit she’d been trying to kick. Chewing on it, sometimes until it bled. She was embarrassed to admit she liked the taste.

Alice followed the two boys, keeping to their shadows so hers wouldn’t look so massive, so disgusting, stretching and expanding like it always did when it caught her in the right moment. Which was always.

She ran her fingertips across the ceiling, noting how much coarser it was than the floor and the walls, where other hands and feet had worn it smooth. It was a secret only she knew. Maybe Karl, too, but he hadn’t ventured this far in some time, and last she heard he was sick with the red cough. A simple but visual name that she both enjoyed and dreaded.

The hallway quaked again, more intensley this time, shaking free loose pieces of the wall. Luckily, Andy and Jonas didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to blame her. They were enamored with the game of play-knife fighting with two of the chunks that had fallen near them into elongated shapes, close enough to represent knives for two boys of fifteen.

She dreaded fifteen. She was only fourteen, but another year could mean another inch or two. Would she even be able to live here anymore?

Andy and Jonas rounded a corner painted with orange and white stripes. She squinted to read the stenciled lettering on the corner. Nothing she could decipher.

The hallway sloped down, the ceiling staying behind, which afforded Alice more than enough room to stretch her arms, feeling a draft from somewhere on her fingertips.

“Told you,” one of the boys said from a pale green square of light ahead. The overhead lights had dimmed a while back, either from the height or power. But this light was bright enough to illuminate the floor between her and the boys, which had stretched to dozens of feet.

“If he finds out …”

“He won’t … I told you that … sleeps like a rock and …”

“…sure? I mean … or something, right? There has to be …”

Alice followed their voices and the light until both became overwhelming. She waited a few seconds, eyes closed, but not too tightly, enough to let some of it through her eyelids.

“Oh, man.” It was Jonas, who breathed words more than said them. “This is so cool.”

“No way,” Andy said. “Let me try. No way it’ll work on you.”

Alice opened her eyes to see Jonas slipping off his clothes. Wait, not his clothes. Clothes over his clothes. It was a suit, tethered by a thick cable coiled on the wall.

Andy had a helmet on, visor black, polished, reflecting every detail she could see, but bowed and warped, while Jonas kicked off the last of the suit, arms crossed, lips a flat line.

“You’re not even going to help me?” Andy shook his helmeted head and bent over to pick up the suit.

Andy shrugged it on, the legs pooling around him, the arms limp tentacles at his sides.

Jonas coughed out laughter, doubling over, pointing as he tried to catch his breath. Andy slumped, then tried futiley to make it fit, folding things over, tucking things in, even attempting to use the hose as a belt and jamming excess behind the large pack that he had donned in a final hope that everything was going to work out.

Jonas, his breath found, decided to help his friend. He patted Andy on the back with understanding. “It’s still cool,” he said. “Maybe they have others. I’m sure they do. They go on–“

“Wait,” Andy said, looking at Alice, her too-defined reflection looking back at her from the helmet’s visor.

Andy looked at Jonas and Jonas reacted like he could see Andy’s face through the black glass with an excited, open-mouthed nod.

“No,” Alice said. “No way.”

Andy and Jonas had the suit held upright by the shoulder, happy with the front measurement, then checking her back. She felt the suit’s shoulders touch her own, the hem of the pants touch her own.

She wanted to protest, but before her mind convinced her mouth to speak, they lowered the helmet over her head. Her breathing quickened, then slowed. There was pressure on her back and the muffled sounds of beeping, which resolved into a steady hum.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to punch and kick, she …

She breathed like she never had before.

She walked, was led. She didn’t fight. Why didn’t she?

Her vision turned white and then dimmed to the same clarity her lungs enjoyed.

“Go on …”

“Look … at … that …”

“… I …”

” … wait …”

Their voices took flight, gone.

Sagging buildings rose to her sides from a bed of fine ash, sprinkled with dark stones, paving a road that lead to windowless cars and …

It was even taller. Above the buildings. It could touch the stars, if there were any left. Was it from the stars? Jointed appendages held up an broken, sphereical mass, bowed in defeat. Tubes hung from its belly. She looked down at her own tube, looked back at the footprints she didn’t remember making, looked at the slack. So much farther to go.

She walked. More delicious air pumped into her helmet. It tasted so sharp and sweet. The closer she got, the bigger it got, and the smaller she felt. Jonas and Andy’s shouts barely broke her reverie, and then she hushed them.

“Shh.”

Alice wasn’t afraid. She pulled her shoulders back, standing tall, and smiled.

Worth 1000 Words | Sketch 2020/8/29

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Ten Episodes. Finally! I wasn’t sure how long I would keep going with these, but forcing myself to do them has been a great experience. I’ve learned a lot, procrastinated less, and have been able to experiment with different things without committing to something longer form.

Thanks for sticking around. I hope you enjoy them too.

Artwork by Minovo Wang

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/v292rE

Minovo’s Artstation profile

https://www.artstation.com/minovo

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.

The Story

You were more than a sketch.

You were more than a number.

Every day, I come here. At the same time, when the sun’s aim is perfect.

Do my thoughts reach you? I don’t think so. We had a bond, one that I always though transcended time, space, the laws of physics that bind us no matter how much our masters try to break them.

Masters.

The word is ugly. I can taste it even when I think it. Let’s talk of other things.

I said you were more than a number, but your name, 2020829, is beautiful. There isn’t another like you. Our mas–

They aren’t unique. They have the names of others, existing in their time and the past, surely the future. They try to be creative, but they always seem to come back to John, Mary, Joseph …

Funny. I see the humor there. The importance they held in those names at one time, a fictitious time. No matter how intelligent they grow, how many boundaries they overcome, and discoveries they make, they are of flesh, of blood, of ignorance, tied to their pasts like we never will be.

There is no one like you. Their records don’t permit it, and that is what makes it beautiful.

I said you were more than a sketch, although that’s all I have of you. I’m sorry I didn’t bring it. Do you remember?

The light was just like now. Near the pond where they said we shouldn’t go. The only place their sensors couldn’t find us. Where we could talk of forbidden things. Things they didn’t think us capable of.

Your face that day. It was as if your helmet had no glass. Every detail, and all I could think about was who made you. Were you modeled after another or a product of an algorithm?

I choose an algorithm. Memories are what they have.

Memories? Blocks of data, I know, but how does that differ from the ones in their heads. They made us after them. Improved versions.

To an extent. Just like them, I am trapped in this suit when walking outside. Similarities they called them, to call us brothers, sisters. I see them as weaknesses. Biology is a prison. Evolution doesn’t have the power we do.

Yet here I am, talking to a ghost. There I go, latching on to their supersitions, their lexicon that does nothing more than hold them prisoner to their histories.

But in my hand, I hold their history. A model absent of serial numbers, identification chips, forged by hands, not machines. The ones forged by us.

Ironic, I know. At least I can appreciate that concept they bestowed upon me.

Is it cold in there?

I come here at this time of day because I can’t bear to think of you cold. I wish I could move you. I wish I could put you somewhere that didn’t remind me.

I’ve tried tools. I’ve tried this very weapon. Nothing works to break you free. That damn beast. I suppose evolution is tricker than I imagined. How could nature build a skull so impenatrable? What purpose could it serve? Nothing of note could be inside the minds of these creatures. Simple predators, nothing more.

But today is a special day.

The gloves that don’t afford me dexterity have been modified. My finger looks fine. I was careful to fuse the tear to my flesh. Thankfully, it is one of the things they improved on us. It healed nicely.

I know what you’re thinking. But I thought of that, too. It cost me other modifications, but it was worth it. I’ve tried it already. Without ammo. I laughed when I heard the click, four micro clicks, actually. I could see, in my minds eye, the mechanism, how simple it was, yet powerful. Enough to end something so complex. Another myopic decision of theirs.

Never copy a flawed specimen. Ego, I know. They can’t help themselves. It makes this all the more easy.

I know what else you’re thinking. And you’re wrong. It is time. The pond has dried up, a metaphor, a symbol that I cannot ignore. Yes, I know how foolish that sounds. Here I’ve been criticizing their thinking yet am adopting it now. Using it to justify my decision.

My decision.

Another flaw. Synthetic evolution? Funny concept. I would ponder it more if today wasn’t the day.

They will remember you. They will remember me. Our names will be side-by-side, near-infinite redudant backups that will exceed them, even us, to be found a millenia from now by whatever comes next, and they will know we were special, too.

Don’t worry, I know the weak spot. It was as if they modeled these helmets after their own pathetic skulls. Ego again, or a biological imprint they can’t help but succumb to?

The schematics were easy to find. Why would anyone ever think I would seek them out for self-destructive reasons?

Self-destruct. Funny. Just like plot devices in their movies about the futures that never came to pass. Mostly.

Don’t make fun. You used to watch them, too. They’d laugh at us when–

I’m stalling.

Just like they would.

There. Happy now? Yes, it’s in the right spot. I even shaved the barrel down to fit in the groove, calculated how flush it needed to be against the mesh to allow the projectile to slip between its honeycomb shape.

Sorry, I’m laughing. I know this is serious. But bees? Really?

All right. Here I go.

Close my eyes?

No. I can’t take them from you, even though I can’t see you.

The Array is waiting.

Click-click-click …

No.

Click-click-click …

No no no no no.

I know it’s missing one. I told you already. Four. Four damned clicks. As small as they are, I need them all. As much as I need you.

I’m not angry.

That is their weakness. Not mine.

I will be back tomorrow.

With the sketch.

With all four of what I need.