Tag: science fiction

Evermore

Ava.BlackLeave a comment

Ok, so… I recently watched this documentary that made my head spin. It’s called “the King of Clones,” and it took me a wild, unforgettable ride, quite like Black Mirror.

I grew up in the 90s. I remember when Dolly the Sheep was everywhere, and people couldn’t stop talking about cloning. I remember the movie The 6th Day with Ahrnie, and I thought for sure human cloning was coming in the next decade. I even wrote my first argumentative essay about stem cell research for my English AP class.

This documentary reminded me of those 90s and 00s thorny topics that fascinated me. As I was watching in both bemusement and horror, I realized that…no one is really talking about cloning anymore. At least, not the way they used to.

The part of the documentary that really shooketh me was segments on the man who had his pet dog cloned. The dude was obsessed with his dog and called him an “older brother.” He was clearly loaded, too, and spent I don’t even want to know how much getting his dog cloned after it died. I don’t blame him. If my cat died, and I was that rich, I might do the same.

Except…EXCEPT! He kept the body of the first dog in his freezer for YEARS. Then, at the end of the documentary, he buried it, declaring his dog hadn’t really died because it grew up in the same environment with the same people. He was merely disposing of the dog’s first body. To him, his dog had transcended death.

This isn’t the part that got me. The part that really stirred me up was that the dead dog’s clone was WATCHING him bury the original. It was too much for me and my little brain. I almost short-circuited on my couch.

Then I started wondering…what if it was a person instead of a dog? And the Reedsy prompt “Write a story about your protagonist going through a rite of passage” came up the next week, and I just had to do it. I had to do it!

Oh and…

…you’ll know why soon enough.

Sensitive Content Warning: Abuse; Suicide; Mental Health

EVERMORE

April 4th, 2030

I wish I could tell Mom and Dad the truth, but it would kill them. The truth is so stupid, too!

I hate painting! There! I said it.

Especially with Mom. Today, I picked purple instead of red for the flowers I drew. This made Mom cry because Cassy’s favorite color was red. Mom cried so much Dad had to put her to bed. Cassy’s birthday is soon; last year, it stressed out Mom so much that she was hospitalized. Her birthday is the same day as mine because, let’s be real, nothing truly belongs to me.

I hope the pressure will ease once my birthday passes. Mom’s health hasn’t been great lately, and Dad is forgetting things. It started as soon as he retired last year, which, at age seventy-six, is really late compared to most people. Dad’s work as a scientist made us rich, according to Mom. She’s nearly as old as him, but unlike Dad, her memory is sharp. Too sharp. It makes my life hell.

Still, I’m scared of what will happen to me if they aren’t around. I’m not old enough to live independently. Even worse, I could get taken by the government and forced into experiments, like Dad warned.

Every flower I paint has to be red. I have to stick to the saxophone, even though I hate it because that’s what Cassy played.

I wish I could become a writer. I stay up late every night, secretly reading books I get from the library and writing in this diary to practice. The other night, Dad caught me and told Mom. Mom shouted at the top of her lungs that Cassy hated reading and took the book from me and ripped it up! Well, she tried to rip it up. Her arthritis is too bad to do any actual damage.

I’d die if she took this diary away. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.

I guess I’ll just have to lie and say I’m staying late at school for homework so I can read books there in secret.

April 9th, 2030

Yesterday, Mom drove with Ryan and picked me up from school. Everyone thought Ryan was Dad’s equivalent because he’s so old, but I told them he’s just our butler.

Didn’t matter. Today, my entire class made fun of me for living with my grandparents, which is pathetic because they’re actually my parents. Not that anyone knows the truth, nor could I ever tell them. Anyway, the class ridiculed me until Mrs. Elliot walked in and caught them.

Mrs. Elliot reported everything to the headteacher, who reported it to my parents. This bougie private school takes bullying seriously. I was relieved until I got home and Mom yelled, Cassy was bullied. While she never agreed with it, it taught Cassy empathy, which she worries I lack.

Then she mentioned making me switch schools again. “A public one,” Mom said, because apparently, bullying is worse there.

I tried not to cry because Cassy never cried, but I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and ran into my room and slammed the door.

Dad came up not long after. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top of the stairs, his gray hair askew, as it often is. His thick glasses had smudges on them. He sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my bedroom wall for a long time.

“These posters are old,” he mumbled, looking at one of Justin Bieber’s concerts in 2009.

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to scream, please let me take them down, but I didn’t want to send him into a spiral.

“After Cassy’s birthday—sorry, your birthday—we could take down some of these old posters. What do you think?”

I hesitated, not knowing if this was a trick. The fading, crumpled Justin Bieber poster stared back at me, daring me to say something I’d regret.

Honestly, I don’t get why everyone was so obsessed with him back then. Cassy loved him, apparently.

“Once the birthday passes, you’ll have made it past an important milestone, and I think it’s fair to say it’s time for you to make your own decisions.” His eyes glazed over a bit, and his mouth fell open like it always does when he spaces out.

“Ok,” I said. That’s all I’ll ever say. If I’m too rebellious, Dad will think I’m a failure. I’ve never asked what happens if I fail. I don’t want to know.

“What was that?” he asked, his cataract-filled eyes glazed over. “Oh, dear, it’s late. Are you hungry? Did we eat?”

I held back my tears, said I would grab food, and headed to the kitchen for snacks. Thankfully, Mom was asleep.

Now I’m under the blankets, worrying about what will happen if I can’t be as perfect as Cassy was.

I don’t think I’d go to the labs, but they might replace me.

I really, really hope he remembers his promise.

April 12th, 2030

Dad talked Mom out of switching schools. I guess he remembered what we talked about a few days ago. I’m hoping this is a good sign that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get more freedom.

My birthday is in three days, and Mom bought flour to make a pineapple upside-down cake. I hate pineapple, but I could never tell her that. She makes it every year and sings Cassy’s favorite song, Baby, by Justin Bieber (of course). I think it’s the only time she experiences genuine joy.

Surviving this birthday means I outlived Cassy. Cassy didn’t make it past sixteen, so if I make it even one day past this birthday, I’ll be a success.

Mx. Lo caught me hiding in the library at lunch, reading. They suggested I read outside before it gets too smoky from forest fires. I said I preferred artificial light to natural light. Mx. Lo looked uneasy; all I could do was try to seem confident.

Later, Ryan picked me up from school, and the car ride home was silent and eerie. I was terrified Mx. Lo had called my parents. I came home expecting Mom to have a stroke, but she was trimming roses and humming a Selena Gomez song that Cassy used to love.

Maybe a teenager reading in the library isn’t that weird to ordinary people like Mx. Lo. Maybe I’m not as much of a failure as my parents think. 

I hate that I have to keep this secret. Dad would go to jail, though, and who knows what would happen to Mom.

And me? Dad said they’d send me to a lab for the rest of my life and experiment on me against my will. They’d torture me, he said. Justin Bieber’s music is torture, but it’s nothing compared to what the government would do to me.

April 16th, 2030

The assholes turned my birthday into a funeral. I’m so angry!

My actual birthday, which was yesterday, was fine. We listened to Justin Bieber on repeat, ate shitty cake, and talked about my day at school. I lied about a poppy painting to please Mom, and now I have to paint one. Ugh.

Honestly, it wasn’t the worst birthday. Usually, they’re filled with warnings about how I might not see my next.

Except Ryan woke me up early the following day. He made me dress up in one of Cassy’s old white dresses. I noticed that he, too, was also entirely in white. He took me into our backyard, where Mom and Dad were waiting, also dressed in white. The sun was still rising. Just past our patio were flowers on giant reefs and a big hole in the ground. Next to it was a medium-sized coffin and two other small ones.

The medium-sized one was open. My first thought was that I had failed to live up to their expectations, and they planned to bury me alive. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.

Nearby, two men in dirt-covered jumpsuits held shovels and cigarettes. Ryan sent them away. I wonder how much Mom and Dad paid them to keep quiet. Probably made them sign NDAs, too.

“Your father and I have been talking, and we agreed that it’s time.” Mom wiped her wrinkled face with a handkerchief. “This isn’t just a birthday, sweetheart. It’s a rite of passage. You’ve ascended from your old body into the next. You defied death.”

I blurted out, “You’ve had her this whole time?!” I couldn’t help myself. Mom’s wrinkly skin went pale. Dad shook his head, jowls flapping.

“No, Cassy, we’ve had you this whole time. But now that it’s your sixteenth birthday, we can lay your first body to rest, along with your other two bodies that sadly did not make it this far.”

I stared at the dark coffin. Dew had formed on it. I was used to weird talk about my “past life,” but they didn’t tell me they kept the bodies! And the casket was open! I couldn’t see in it yet, and I really, really didn’t want to. I gazed past the fence and into the dense forest behind our house, and without thinking, I bolted towards it.

Ryan caught me before I made it far. He dragged me back with his hand over my mouth as I screamed. He urged me to stop and promised it would end soon.

I don’t know why, but I listened to him. I wiped my tears, turned around, and faced my parents.

“Go ahead,” Dad said.

I walked up to the casket. I saw hands resting on a chest.

My hands.

I looked at my Dad, who gave me a faint nod. Mom was too busy crying happy tears, staring at the casket with a manic look I have seen far too many times.

“Don’t be afraid!” she bellowed. “You can’t ever die, Cassy. You’ll always be here.” She sobbed into her hands while Dad rubbed her back. He gave me another stern nod, his expression screaming, don’t upset your mother.

I approached the casket, tasting bile. I closed my eyes and then opened them.

It was me in there. My dead skin was blue and frozen. I had sunken cheeks. My blonde hair was in neat ringlets. I was wearing a white, frilly dress. My chest stuck out unnaturally like someone had stuffed it. I am identical to the body in the casket, except for being alive and well. Even my nails are the same oval shape.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked numbly.

“Show yourself some respect,” Dad snapped.

I couldn’t say she’d died so I could live because Cassy isn’t dead in my parents’ minds. To them, I’m the same person who’s in the casket. I’m here, dressed in her old, out-of-fashion clothes, listening to the same bad music, and hating my life like she did. Mom and Dad figured if I did everything exactly the same, I’d become the person Cassy was.  

Except I’m not doing anything. The girl in the casket is. I’m just her clone–her third one, to be exact. My rich, well-connected father secretly commissioned me through his network of questionable Korean scientists. I’m the clone that, unfortunately, survived the process.

Writing the truth feels great, but I might have to burn this diary after. I can’t go to a lab. I just can’t.

“Thank you,” I said to my former self. I walked away. I really, really wanted to throw up.

Both men returned, smoked, and buried the three clones in one hole. Mom sobbed the entire time. Dad stood still other than occasionally adjusting his glasses. He seemed weirdly lucid through all of it.

The lie my parents tell everyone is that I’m their grandkid. Cassy had a secret child before she died, and it was me. Cassy killed herself because she had mental health issues and the baby didn’t help.

I think it’s pretty rich that my parents act like I’m the one disrespecting Cassy, despite them lying about her past like that. But who am I to say anything? I’m supposed to be her. I’m not permitted to have my own opinions. They only revealed the truth about my identity four years ago because, according to them, I was old enough to keep it a secret.

Mom and Dad let me leave the funeral before them, and I puked in the downstairs toilet when I got into the house. Mom and Dad didn’t hear. They were too busy crying outside by the casket. 

I hate this. I can’t tell anyone the truth. I feel so alone. Cloning humans is still illegal in North America. Even if I could summon the courage to say something, I have no friends I can tell. I can’t relate to anyone at school. I’m not allowed to like what they like because many of their hobbies and favorite singers didn’t exist when Cassy was alive. I’m stuck living someone else’s life, except, genetically speaking, I am that person. I am Cassy.

My head hurts. I want to throw up again.

One day I might write a horror story about a clone who has to act like their dead former self. Then she has to watch herself get buried in some sick ritual that her parents have been anticipating since she was “born.” That’s the closest I’ll ever get to being able to speak my truth.

Except I don’t want anyone to discover me and take me to a lab for experiments, particularly if my Dad alive to safeguard me.

Maybe I’ll write a story about a girl forced to impersonate her dead older sister. It’s a close enough comparison and won’t raise red flags. I hope, anyway.

I want to tell the truth. I want to be seen. But maybe I should just be grateful I exist. Maybe Mom and Dad are right—Cassy can’t die, and neither can I.

I guess I should be happy about that. Doesn’t everyone want to live forever?

Why can’t I be happy?

April 21st, 2030

I thought my birthday/funeral would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I asked to read last night, but Dad got angry and said it wasn’t like Cassy. Then he told me to practice saxophone.

He forgot everything he had promised.

I snapped, threw my saxophone at the wall, and ran out of the house.

Ryan eventually found me at a gas station down the hill from our house. He rolled up in Dad’s black SUV. I didn’t fight. I just got in the front seat. On the way home, he pulled over on the side of the road. I started biting my nails.

He looked older than usual when he spoke. “There’s something I need to tell you about Cassy.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically. I couldn’t help it.

“I knew the first Cassy. She hated the color red and despised painting, especially with your mother. She wanted to be a writer. Except your mother wanted Cassy to play saxophone because that’s what your mother played when she was young. She punished Cassy for reading and being herself, quite like she does now.”

My heart felt like it might break out of my chest. “What about Justin Bieber?”

“Your mother loves him. Cassy—no, you hate him. Always have. Don’t listen to your parents. Your father was never around. He barely knew Cassy. The poor girl felt trapped. That’s why she…”

My heart exploded, and I cried so much. Cassy suffered like I did, and that’s why she killed herself?

Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt and hugged me. “In two years, you’ll graduate. You can go to college and pursue your dreams. Take out student loans and free yourself from them. I’ll be there to help you. I promise. I watched you grow up twice. I won’t do it a third time.”

We drove home, but only after I finished crying. I apologized to Mom and Dad and went to my room; weirdly, they left me alone. I’ve been here ever since. It’s dark now, and my stomach is growling, but I can’t bring myself to eat.

I hated Cassy for so long, but we’re more similar than I realized. We’re not just similar. We’re the same person. I am her. I feel sorry for her. For myself, I should say. I didn’t make it out of this house last time, but I will this time. If I can defy death, I can do anything.

There’s a painting of poppies on my bedroom wall that Cassy did. It’s Mom’s favorite. I never noticed before, but some petals aren’t red. They’re magenta, yellow, and even violet. The red petals are near the front and are bigger than the rest, giving the illusion the flowers are mostly one color.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. I guess I’m smarter than I give myself credit for. 

Freedom for All – Entry #3

Ava.BlackLeave a comment

Dark Ava is back. Man, that didn’t take long.

The theme this week is “Best Laid Plans,” and I chose to write on the prompt “write about a plan that goes wrong, but for the better.” I’m posting my story rather than immediately jumping into the details surrounding its creation. I’ll post my thoughts on how/why I wrote it at the bottom.

Before I start, I will say it’s inspired by one of my favourite songs, “River Below” by Billy Talent. If you haven’t heard of them, go listen! They’re a great Canadian punk-rock band and I don’t care if you say it’s emo, I love them. Always have.

Anyways, here it is.

TRIGGER WARNING: mental health, suicide, and terrorism.

FREEDOM FOR ALL

The twisted bundle of wires is a brain and the hot soldering iron is my scalpel. Stolen books on bombmaking are opened and scattered around my operating table. It’s meticulous and messy work, but like any operation, it will save lives. The world, in fact.

It’s been almost two decades since the Elites developed their mind control program. At the start, they packaged it as a social website, tricking people into using it with shiny bells and whistles. Then, when smartphones became popular, the Elites transformed their program into an addictive app.

It didn’t take long for the world to eat it up. It spread, propagating like a virus. Now, everyone is infected. They’re part of the hive mind, enslaved and doomed to follow the Elites’ orders for all of eternity.

In any population, there will always be outliers. Ones that can’t be controlled. I’m one of them. It’s my purpose to stop the Elites and save the world.

I’m not alone. There are more outliers across the world, but only a few. We call ourselves the Crimson Warriors. We operate on the dark web, but even that’s not fully safe these days.

The Elites think one day they’ll control everyone, including us outliers, but they’re wrong. I’m the chosen outlier. I’m destined to break the chains and shackles. It’s a big task, but I don’t have a choice. I need to do this for everyone.

My friends and family rejected me when they found out I wanted to rebel against the Elites. My wife left me and took custody of my kid. My parents cut me out. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re under the Elites’ control, and until I act, they’ll remain lost to me.

Even though I’ve been abandoned, I will sacrifice myself for my family. For everyone. I’ll be a hero once this is over; famous for liberating the planet. I’ll be dead, but I’ll be everywhere. They’ll erect statues of me. Moreover, my family will be free. Everyone will be free.

The Crimson Warriors and I bought experimental black-market tech called Neurolinks that allow us to communicate through our thoughts. If I turn my eyecam on, they can see what I see, and we can hear each other in our heads. It’s the only safe way left to communicate. The Elites watch everything—phones, emails, texts, apps, internet. But they can’t hack the Neurolinks. Not yet, at least.

I pull more wires out of my toolkit. Explosives are part of this contraption, but it’s safe. I made sure when I researched and double-checked with the Crimson Warriors.

Cross those wires, Big Echo whispers in my head. If you get caught, they’ll try to dismantle it. But if you cross the wires, they won’t know which ones to cut. It could buy you some time.

I listen and cross the wires, soldering them into place. The scent is comforting.

Big Echo is a war vet. He was on a bomb squad and knows a thing or two about making them. Before the Neurolink, I had to do my own research. Now that I have Big Echo to help, things are going much better.

Mine’s ready, Rivers, Honor’s Bastard says. I’ll take out their New York Office. Big Echo, you got Miami. And you, Rivers—you’re the main show. Corporate Tower, downtown San Francisco.

“Roger,” I say out loud.

You got this, boss, Honor’s Bastard says. Man, you’re going to be a legend after this. You’ll be front-page news. Rivers, the savior of society! They’ll call you the Liberator! Has the ring of a superhero, doesn’t it?

You are a hero, boss, Big Echo says.

“Well, we are a team, boys.” I finish up the last of the work on the explosive.

Thanks to you. You’re the mastermind, Rivers. We all know it. No need to be humble.

A few other voices cheer in agreement, and I smile for the first time in months.

Freedom, someone says. Freedom for all.

“Freedom for all,” I repeat, still grinning.

***

D-day. My backpack is heavy with explosives as I approach the Elites’ headquarters. It’s raining and cold. Downtown San Francisco is busy and littered with human feces like the corporate cesspool it is.

The sidewalks and roads are congested, like always. Ever since the Elites mandated electric cars a year ago, traffic has gotten quieter. I don’t mind electric cars, but I miss having a choice. I miss being free.

The normal morning rush lets me blend in. I wear my old suit and tie from when I was a corporate slave myself. It’s a cloak I must wear so I can unleash my dagger. I’m not a wolf in sheep’s clothing—I’m a savior in the skin of the enslaved.

I pull out my phone. It’s offline because its only purpose is to act as a detonator. The app I designed is cliché—it’s a giant red button on the screen that, when touched, will activate the bomb in my backpack.

Cliché or not, all I need to do is get in the building and press it. No one will care about my creativity once I liberate them. They’ll just see me as the hero I am.

Despite running a company that controls the world, the Elites have little security. I have been scoping out their headquarters for weeks and haven’t seen anything that poses a threat. Individuals from all walks of life can stroll in unimpeded. I suppose you don’t need protection when you have everyone under your thumb.

Their arrogance will be their undoing. There are still outliers. There’s still me—no, us, the Crimson Warriors.

Neurolinks online, Big Echo says. What do you say, boss? Ready for liberation?

“Freedom for all,” I mutter under my breath. “Freedom for all.”

Freedom for all! A chorus of voices echoes in my head.  

“Freedom for all,” I repeat louder this time, unable to help myself. A nearby woman gives me a strange look, her eyes dead and empty like all those enslaved.

I ignore her. It’s not like she can hear me. The app probably filtered out my words, just like any non-conformity.

Careful boss, Big Echo warns. That woman seemed a bit surprised by you.

“She’s been programmed,” I say under my breath. “Her eyes were empty. That’s how you tell. Dead eyes, Big Echo. Remember that.”

Roger, Big Echo says.

I’m onsite, Honour’s Bastard says. Ready to detonate.

The Elite’s headquarters is only a few blocks away. I walk as fast as I can. My burden is hefty, but my resolve carries me forward with ease.

I think about my life as I weave through the crowds—it’s not much I’m losing. Not really. My ex-wife was taken by the Elites years ago. My parents, too. My kid is already programmed and online, a corporate slave to be.

If my sacrifice frees them, it will be worth it. Either way, I’m never seeing them again.

You’re close, boss, Honor’s Bastard says. Once you’re onsite, we’ll commence our plan and detonate in unison.

I approach the entrance of the massive skyscraper. It reflects the grey sky and cuts into the clouds, well above all the other corporate towers. Marble steps lead to the entrance like a dais, and I can smell the chlorine from their indoor fountain despite the stench outside.

The enslaved bump past me, all pulling out ID badges and chatting to each other about work. At times, I’ve found myself envying them. They don’t have the same responsibility that I do.

“Hey,” someone nearby says, “you lost?”

I turn around to see a large man in a black suit and dark sunglasses looking down at me. Security. How have I not seen them before? He sports an earpiece and I recognize his shades as TechGlasses. They don’t have x-ray vision, but rather have facial recognition and direct access to corporate databases. They can pull up someone’s profile instantly.

Those glasses can identify you, boss. Get out of there!  

“I’m late for a meeting,” I say, looking at his black, polished shoes.

“With whom?” I hear his glasses beeping. “I ran recognition on you, and it seems like you’ve been unemployed for some time now, Mr. Rivers.”

Shit, Big Echo says. Say you’re an entrepreneur.

“I’m an entrepreneur.” I square my shoulders, feigning haughty arrogance. “I have new tech I want to show to your marketing team. An algorithm, actually. We booked this meeting weeks ago. Listen, if they’re not interested anymore, I can take it to your competitors out in Silicon Valley.”

“Let me confirm with their team,” the man says.

This is bad, boss. I can’t hack their system fast enough to create a fake meeting.

What do I do? I ask in my head.

Run inside. If you go fast enough, you can still detonate.

I wrap my sweaty hand around the detonator in my pocket.

“Yeah, I got a guy here. Says he’s an entrepreneur with a new algorithm for marketing?”’ Security asks, speaking into their earpiece. “Uh-huh. Yep. Got it.”

Freedom for all, Big Echo says.

They took your wife and kid, Rivers, Honor’s Bastard says. Your whole life. They took your whole LIFE.

He’s right. My family was my whole life. My heartbeat picks up and my sweaty grasp tightens around my phone.

It’s the only way to free them, Big Echo says. You know it’s the only way, boss. Some people might die, but they’re all enslaved, anyways. And no war is won without sacrifice. No one obtains freedom without blood.

My heart races. The security guard frowns, his shoulders tensing. I notice two more coming down the stairs towards me, each as large and intimidating as the next. They’re also wearing TechGlasses, keeping their dead eyes hidden.   

They’re onto you, Big Echo says. It’s now or never, boss.

I think of my kid. My wife. Their faces. I want one last moment with them before I detonate. I remember the day my son was born. I smile. What a beautiful day.

You have to go now! Big Echo shouts. FREEDOM FOR ALL!

FREEDOM FOR ALL, the chorus screams.

“FREEDOM FOR ALL!” I bellow as I run.

I dash up the stairs as I hear someone shout stop him. I shove myself through the glass doors. I pull out my phone and unlock it with my fingerprint. The app pops up. The red button flashes.

Now or never, boss!

Shaking, I lower my finger to detonate.

Then I seize and convulse. My fingers cramp and my hand turns into an involuntary claw. Pain ripples through me, searing and electric, and I hear the crowd gasp as I collapse. My phone slides away.

A taser. Fuck! It will throw off my Neurolink—maybe even fry it!

A body slams on top of me and their weight crushes my ribs. I can’t breathe. I’m still convulsing. The scorching, crushing pain is distant, like it belongs to someone else.

I still have my goal! I have to liberate them! It’s up to me! I’m the only one who can do it!

I stare at my phone on the shiny tiles. The red button flashes. I roar as I try to reach for it, but the security guard grabs my wrist and yanks my arm behind my back.

“It’s a bomb!” A bystander cries, and screams erupt everywhere. Feet stomp past me as the crowd rushes out the door. Nearby, glass smashes. Sirens wail.

It’s over.

  The crushing weight is too much. I try, one last time, to breathe, but it’s futile. I black out.

***

I come to with an oxygen mask on my face. Blue and red lights flash all around me. My mouth is dry. I taste iron. My vision is blurry. I try to move, but my arms are restrained. The smell of chlorine is gone, replaced by that of sterility.

I look down and see I’m strapped to a bed in the back of an ambulance. There are IVs hooked up to me, pumping poison into my veins. Probably full of nanobots. They’re already starting the programming. I’m woozy, sluggish, and stuck in place. I can’t fight it.

“Lucky we got him in time,” someone says. “His bag was full of explosives, which were connected to a device that let him detonate with his phone. He could have taken out the whole floor with what he was packing, killing hundreds, if not thousands.”

“Who is he?” I spot a grizzled man in a suit talking to the security guard from earlier. The newcomer has a gun and badge strapped to his waist. A cop. He’s drenched from the rain, his balding head shiny and damp. He has sharp brown eyes, though; unlike everyone else, he doesn’t look enslaved.

“Facial recognition says he’s Tom Rivers. He’s thirty-one and unemployed. We ran him through our security system. He’s been hanging around here for weeks.”

“What do you know about him?” the cop asks.

“He used to be a software engineer at a big tech company but was fired two years ago after he started spouting off about mind control conspiracies. His wife divorced him and he lost custody of his kid shortly after. Doesn’t look like he has had contact with his parents since then, either. And despite his history of mental health problems, he hasn’t filled a prescription in a long time.”

I try to speak, but my tongue is too thick to make words. I need to tell them that I don’t have mental health problems. The Elite made that all up once they found out I was onto them. They even tried to hide nanobots in the pills!

If I’m right, and this cop is an outlier, maybe I can pass the message to him. I try communicating through Neurolink, but I’m met with silence.

You there, boss? Big Echo responds, his voice slow and fuzzy. We got busted, too. The Elites knew. There must have been a rat. Rivers? You there?

“I won’t ask how you got his private medical information.” The cop shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “Anything else?”

“He has a website called the ‘Crimson Warriors.’ It’s a conspiracy theory website. Says that social media is a form of mind control that’s enslaved the population, and all the tech companies are in on it. Calls CEOs ‘the Elites.’”

“Anyone else using the site?”

“There’s some traffic, but not a lot of engagement. Based on our analysis it would appear he’s a one-man show.”

The cop shakes his head. “No such thing as privacy anymore.”

“If it wasn’t for us,” A nearby man in a suit—a dead-eyed Elite!—chimes in, “you’d be chasing your tails for weeks trying to figure out this psycho.”

The cop sighs. “Anything else, then?”

“Recently,” the security guard continues, “he posted about new tech called ‘Neurolinks,’ saying it lets him communicate with his network globally, but based on what we know, there’s no such thing as a fully functional Neurolink.”

Shit! They know, boss! No! The Neurolinks were all we had left!

“Any chance there could be?” The cop asks.

“No, that tech is still years off.” The Elite rolls his dead eyes, lying like the devil he is. “We’ve done a lot of testing, but it never goes well. The subjects usually die.”

“Right. I remember reading about those poor test monkeys in the news,” the cop says. “My guess is this asshole has untreated schizophrenia.”

“He does,” Security adds, quieter this time. “But you didn’t hear it from us.”

“They’re lying,” I croak. All heads swivel to me. “They’re all lying. They’re lying!” I thrash against the restraints. They have to know! I can still get through to them! “You’re all slaves! Slaves to the Elites! I was trying to help you! I just want you to be free! I want freedom for all! Freedom for all!”

“Give him a sedative.” The cop sounds bored, not enlightened like he should be! “And whatever other drugs he needs.”

Boss, they’re going to cut your Neurolink! You have to fight them! You’ll be as lost as all the other enslaved else if you don’t do something!

I struggle against the restraints as I watch fluid flow into my arm. I flex all my muscles, hoping I can squeeze it out. I grind my teeth. I howl like a wolf calling to the moon.

Fight it, boss!

The restraints cut into my wrists, but I won’t stop fighting. I don’t want to be enslaved! I don’t want to end up like these dead-eyed sheep!

I watch helplessly as the paramedic injects something into my IV—nanobots! I feel them crawl into my veins, cold and invasive.

No! I have to stay free! It’s the only way my wife and kid stand a chance!

My vision darkens. The voices fade. My head rolls to the side, my eyes half-open.

It’s over, I tell my team. I failed. We lost. I’m sorry. You have to go on without me. Detonate if you can. We can still…save…them…

For the first time in years, I’m met with silence. Tears roll down my cheeks. The Elite…the…oh god. It wasn’t real, was it?

Wasn’t it?

Author’s Notes

Soooo…I’ll start by saying I recognize this is a pretty dark topic, but I really, really love doing unreliable narrator stories. When I saw the prompts this week I felt uninspired at first, but then I started thinking – what about exploring the idea of someone who believes they’re doing the right thing, but in reality, what they’re actually doing is really destructive? And when they’re caught, it seems like they’ve lost, but as the reader, you find out that their plans being thwarted is actually a good thing.

And thus, “Freedom for All” was born.

There’s been quite a bit of discourse recently around colonization of the mind on part of social media and tech companies. Someone recently commented that capitalism started as colonizing the planet, but now that the land has all been colonized (gross), the next place is the mind. Obviously, space comes after, but until that’s feasible, minds it is!

GROSS, but I kind of agree. Social media takes your time and sells it to advertisers. The goal is to get you to spend as much time on your phone/computer as they can. The more time you spend on social media, the more they can gather data on you and build an advertising profile, which they then sell for $$$.

If you want, you can see the profile Google has built on you. I checked mine out, and it was eerily accurate.

I do not, however, think that anyone is mind controlling us through social media (anymore than the next person, at least). But Tom Rivers, an untreated schizophrenic, sees things a different way. The story is set in the near future, maybe like 2025-2030ish? In his reality, everyone is brainwashed, and it’s up to him to sacrifice himself to save them. But in everyone else’s reality, they’re just addicted to their phone, and tech companies are using it to profit. No mind control – just regular old manipulation.

If you read the lyrics from River Below, you’ll see the inspiration I took from it. God, I love Billy Talent. Absolute kings.

Anyways, just because I’m paranoid – THIS IS JUST A STORY AND DOES NOT REFLECT THE VIEWS/DESIRES OF THE AUTHOR IN ANY WAY.

Terrorism is bad and everyone that needs medication should take it. As someone with Jewish heritage, I absolutely hate the notion of conspiracies and lizard people and chem trails and MK ultra programming and whatever else there is out there. So again, if it’s not clear, THESE ARE NOT MY VIEWS.

Thanks ❤

Billy Talent Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/08yf5A2nS4XEeNvabDXqyg

Writing Resource: Improving Dialogue

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Happy Sunday! I was browsing r/writing as always, and stumbled upon a great article regarding writing believable dialogue. It’s appropriately called 10 Tips to Help You Write Realistic Dialogue.

I found all of these tips relevant and useful. I especially liked the tip about not using corny lines during fight scenes, and how the author uses real life experience to describe what actually goes through someone’s mind during a scrap. You don’t have time to think of witty lines or insults, nor would you ever say them. You tend to be too focused on not getting hit, keeping up, and not letting exhaustion stop you from defending/attacking. I’m also speaking from real life experience here – believe it or not, martial arts happens to be one of my favourite pass times next to writing.

Another point I liked was that feelings can be conveyed through actions or descriptions. Iglesias correctly states that “…if the character is constantly telling us how s/he feels, we stop caring.” Something I’ve been working on a lot in my writing is using body language to show (not tell) how my character is feeling. In re-reading my drafts, it adds much more depth and lets the reader infer what the person is thinking, rather than cramming it down their throats through the character’s dialogue.

I think another great point to keep in mind is avoiding heavy-handed dialogue. Something that irks me (even in television) is when a character explains why someone is making a decision. I see it all the time in the Hundred. One of the characters will do something, and before I can ponder why, a different character will shout “I know you regret your previous actions, but doing this won’t change the past!” It makes me roll my eyes and irritates me. Let your readers come to their own conclusions about the character’s behaviour. It will make your story more gripping.

Another tactic I employ is acting out some of my scenes between characters. I’m no actress, but hearing things out loud  helps make things sound more realistic. If you’re stuttering or stammering, or having to pause to try and understand what you’re conveying, chances are it needs a rework. This is also kind of fun and provides some entertainment while working on a draft (for me, anyways).

Hope this helps! Share your tips/thoughts below. I would love to hear them!

Writing Podcasts: Mythcreants Podcast

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I’m a Luddite at heart. While I enjoy technology, I despise social media and I’ve been resistant to the societal changes it’s brought about. I refused to get a new phone for five years, but recently I had no choice and succumbed. I’m basically an 83-year-old in a 27-year-old’s body.

Doubtless, it would be difficult to make my way as an Indie Author without social media. So I’ve decided to create some pages on Instagram and Twitter, and will be making a Facebook account soon enough. I also frequently post on Reddit, but I don’t really consider that social media. It might be the only platform besides WordPress I don’t use begrudgingly.

That all aside, another aspect of technology I’ve avoided has been Podcasts. Why, might you ask?

  1. I didn’t understand what they were, and I didn’t care to find out;
  2. I didn’t like the name “podcast” (yes, I’m ridiculous);
  3. I thought you had to have an Iphone to get them (continuing on the ridiculous train);
  4. I didn’t know any good ones, and I couldn’t be bothered to look into it (do I need to say it again?);
  5. I hate Apple, and I associated Podcasts with this company for the longest time.

However, my thirst for knowledge overpowered my stubbornness, and I invested some time in researching good podcasts (is the word a proper noun?) for writing. One that came up was the Mythcreants Podcast.

I started listening to it while I was stuck in the filing room. It was a long, boring week at work, and I got relegated there to do someone a favour. During that time, I listened to at least 10 of their shows. The verdict? These guys are fantastic.

Oren and Chris really know their stuff. Both of them are  intelligent and knowledgeable when it comes to writing and creating. The topics covered on their podcast include a wide range of subjects, such as “Describing the Environment;” “The Important of Character Likability;” and many other areas of writing I didn’t even think of.

Even if you aren’t writing SciFi or fantasy, check them out, they have a wealth of knowledge to share: https://mythcreants.com/ Seriously, check it out!

The Red Queen Series

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Spoilers ahead for the Red Queen series.

So I’m reading Victoria Aveyard’s War Storm right now. I’m four chapters in and my eyes are bleeding. If anyone has picked up the Red Queen series, you’re probably thinking I brought this on myself. You’re right, I did. But I have weakness for Young Adult (YA) novels, and sometimes it is nice to read something mindless, especially when your brain is fried from work. And let’s be real, some YA is really good!

But this series sucks. The first book was alright, but as the story drags onto it’s fourth novel, it’s verging on unreadable. My initial impression was that it was a rip off of Pierce Brown’s Red Rising, which is totally is. Truth be told, I could deal with that in the beginning.

However, the series has warped into a convoluted mess of POV (Point of View) chapters in a strange attempt to make it a GOT-level epic (GOT = Game of Thrones), for which the author lacks the skill to pull off. It also doesn’t help that the foundation of this novel is built on the well-worn trope of a female protagonist in a post-apocalyptic society, fighting to save the enslaved while plagued by tugging love interests (a set of Princes and a childhood best friend). Gag.

I think that if you have skills and talent, you can pull of a trope or two. But Aveyard doesn’t. Why?

For one, her writing is riddled with adverbs and one-sentence paragraphs. I know I said the occasional adverb is not the devil, and I stand by that. But it feels like every goddamn sentence has one. I chuckled darkly. He said sadly. I moved slightly…She wrote poorly.  They make the writing cheap and lazy. And the one-sentence paragraphs are melodramatic and annoying. They do not make her writing impactful, because there are so many. SO MANY. They are irritating and relentless.

Her POVs also lack distinction. I feel like I’m reading the same boring person’s voice over and over, just with different opinions and settings. I agree now with the advice that it’s hard to pull of multiple POVs, and you have to really know what you are doing if you want to be successful. Aveyard is a good example of how not to do multiple POVs, if you want one.

The characters themselves are cliche and the volume of people being introduced is overwhelming. The A Song of Ice and Fire series has a lot of characters, as well, and its a testament to GRRM’s skill that he can pull this off without making his readers bored or confused (debatable by book five, but in the beginning it wasn’t the case). Aveyard cannot do this. The side characters she introduces are one dimensional, and quite frankly, lame. They lack anything robust and only serve as fodder to her plot. There are too many dicks on the dance floor, as I (plus Brett and Jermaine) like to say.

Aveyard also isn’t that great at describing people, places, battles or settings. One example that stands out is when she highlights one of her characters as “smiling like a cat.” I don’t understand why she used this comparison, especially given that her plot takes place in a society that is 1000 years into the future and probably has no inkling of Alice in Wonderland. Because without Chester, when would you think of a smiling cat? Cat’s never fucking smile. They yawn, hiss, growl, bear their teeth, but when do they smile? Ugh. And what’s worse is this character smiling like a cat is supposed to make the readers question him. Is he devious because of this cat-like smile? What are his real motivations? What is he really thinking? CAN WE TRUST HIM?!!! It’s fucking terrible. I’m sorry, but it is.

The plot really isn’t that great, either. In fact, the basis of the story (newbloods) is one giant dues-ex machina waiting to happen. It’s just a matter of time before “the most powerful newblood of all” swoops in and saves Mare and her friends from total annihilation (and side note – what kind of fucking name is Mare?). It sucks. Period.

The sad thing is some of the concepts aren’t that bad, and if the writing wasn’t awful, Aveyard could probably pull it off. I’m gonna reference my number one homeboy Steven King here, in that I can see how reading terrible books can be motivating. After reading the Red Queen series (which apparently is a fucking hit??), I know I can do better and I want to do better. So thanks, Aveyard, for giving me that, and showing me what not to do.

 

The First Rewrite

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Oh Gosh. Long time no post. To all three of my readers, I apologize.

Sarcasm aside, I’ve been tits-deep in my rewrite and it’s been sucking the life out of me. I spent a good part of the year procrastinating, but I finally started a few months ago. And now I’m almost done!! This post won’t be my best writing because I’m totally gassed, but I want to share regardless.

The thought of having to do a second rewrite is jarring, but I think it’s necessary. I’ve learned an immense amount throughout this process  Moreover, I’ve fallen in love with my work again. I was dreading tackling my draft because I knew it was flawed, and part of me was worried I’d say screw it and scrap the whole thing. But the opposite happened. As Dolores would say, I chose to see the beauty in that draft. And, I used what I have learned over the last little while about writing to make it better than before.

Do I have any wisdom to pass on? Hmm. Let’s see

1. Just do it.

If you’re anxious about rewriting your novel because of the inevitable self-criticism that will follow, dwelling instead of writing will only make it worse. Sit down and get started, no matter how painful it is. You might struggle in the beginning. I know I did. I kicked and screamed and metaphorically bit myself as I sat in front of my computer preparing to start. But as time goes on and you spend more time on your rewrite, it will get easier, less painful, and you’ll find splendour in your work

2. But wait a little bit first…

I had to throw in some juxtaposition . Steven King suggests that you leave your draft alone for a little while, so when you pick it up again you can look at with fresh eyes. I have to agree with this advice. When you’re in the depths of your novel, it’s hard to spot mistakes. Just like with a toxic relationship (I’m on a roll with the dark humour), taking a step back and giving yourself some time to process what you’ve written will allow you look at your draft from a new perspective, giving you the ability to spot flaws, and edit accordingly

3. Be critical, but not mean.

I use the comment tool in Microsoft Word when I’m rewriting like self-administering morphine after surgery, ripping apart my own work with criticism. I poke holes without mercy because I know others will, but I do so with the goal of making my draft stronger, not with the aim of putting myself down. Sometimes I cringe as I do, thinking, wow, Ava, can’t believe you missed this, as I cringe and wonder why I even bother.  But I push forward despite these thoughts, remembering that acknowledging flaws will only serve to make my story better

4. Re-read, re-read, re-read.

I’m lucky in that I like reading my own writing (anyone else feel the same, or am I totally self-indulgent?). So I can reread the same part over and over, until I hate it, then I put it down and re-read it again. By doing so, I continually make my writing better. Throughout this rewrite, I’ve probably read some of my problematic chapters 10-15 times each, editing each time. It’s only served to make my work better, so I recommend trying it.

5. Be brutal with removing unnecessary words and sentences.

I noticed that I when I am pounding out my draft, I tend to write the same thing but in two different ways. During my rewrite, I was often forced to make a choice and cut out one of the sentences. However, by doing so, I cleaned up my work and made it much less wordy.

The general rule is draft – 10%. My second draft is longer than my first draft (about 20% longer), but only because I wrote in description and added items that are necessary to the plot. I actually cut out a tonne of my old work because it was redundant, poorly written, or just unnecessary. It’s hard sometimes, but essential for improvement.

6. Read out loud.

Especially the dialogue. If it sounds weird, or you think “would someone actually say that?” then switch it up, then read it out loud again, over and over, until it sounds smooth. This is a critical step. I used to do this for all my university papers, as well (and not to brag, but I aced almost all of them).

7. Adverbs should be avoided but are not the devil.

Sorry y’all, but I don’t hate them. The truth is, most readers don’t care about the occasional adverb because they don’t realize they are considered poor form. I didn’t care about them until I read On Writing. Adverbs don’t ruin your writing if they are used sparingly (see what I did there). I think they give my writing character, actually. Just sayin’.

8. Don’t get sucked into the oppressive world of rules.

I found that the more I tried to learn about writing by reading blogs, listening to podcasts, posting on Reddit, etc., the more I found myself feeling constrained and bound to a set of norms. This hurt my ability to be creative and it sucked the life from my writing, especially in the rewrite phase. Truth be told, the more I rewrote my work to adhere to these rules, the less I liked it.

Don’t get me wrong – these rules helped me improve my writing, too. I’m just saying moderation is key here. If breaking the occasional rule gives your writing a unique and endearing voice, embrace it I say. Otherwise we’ll all just sound the same.

9. Avoid the copy and paste method.

I’ll admit that there were times (quite a few times) I was lazy and I would copy and paste from my old draft into my new one instead of actually, you know, rewriting it. Occasionally it worked, because the work I’d done previously was good. However, my writing was much stronger when I sat down and made the effort to retype my story line by line. New ideas would form, things would come out better, and over all, the rewritten work was stronger than the what I had copy and pasted, then edited.

10. Embrace change.

It’s hard to let go of our creations. But if something isn’t sitting right in your gut, or if you know part of your plot doesn’t make sense, take the plunge, change it and make it better. I was afraid of change, another reason why I delayed my rewrite. But once I got started, I saw how much it improved my work and was inspired to keep going. It’s funny how many times I’ve been terrified of the idea of doing something, only to find out that I actually love it. Change was one of these things.

 

Maybe some of you will read these bits of wisdom and say, “None of that applies to me, I can’t WAIT to rewrite my work and change is a beautiful, unthreatening thing!” How I envy you. For me, it was a grueling process, but like any challenge I am glad I overcame it. Next steps for me are to repeat the above process, then look at getting an editor. I’m sure that will be an adventure in itself.

In the meantime, I’ll keep updating this blog, because I miss posting here!

Anyone else rewriting their draft? Care to share some thoughts? Rants are just as welcome.