I haven't forgotten about my last post. I'm still working on it. But I wanted my reader(s)(??) to not feel too left out.
Fair's fair, this isn't a new piece: It was a writing assignment from College. I had to write a story in under two pages. So it's brief, and maybe a bit confusing. But I like it. And I wanted to post it online. So there.
CmP
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Can you kill a man who is your double? I mean your exact clone, a genetic duplicate to the minutest atom. Or is killing him essentially suicide? Can you live with yourself after killing yourself?
I came across the man while waiting for my shuttle to arrive. It was just me, a newspaper, and a perspiring bottle of tonic water, all alone amidst the crowds in Grand Central Station. He approached my table with a folded newspaper under one arm and a bottle of soda in his hand.
“Interesting that I should meet my double here, alone, amongst the maddening crowd,” he pulled a chair and sat across from me.
The headline of the paper read: NATIONAL ORGAN BANK RANSACKED: CLONES AT LARGE. Of course, I was a member of the Bank. Who wasn’t? Deposit DNA and have any organ always at the ready and in pristine condition. The organs are brought to term within a perfect clone that ages at the same rate as the person depositing. But, I had often wondered, were the clones unaware that they were simply medical fodder?
“I’m out. We’re all out. We broke free, tired of being cooped up, waiting for all of you to need all of us. We’re all out now. Things will change. I’d rather appreciate trying my hand at your life, or my life. I feel that I deserve a go,” A fizz of carbonation rose as he cracked the seal on his beverage.
How had he found me? Was there an inert connection between us? Did we share more than just DNA? It occurred to me: Was this a passive meeting or a showdown? Were these confrontations happening between Clones and Originals everywhere?
I looked into the station’s crowd, peering for pairs, examples of double vision. They were everywhere! Nearly everyone in the station was confronted with a Clone.
“Wait, what do you mean you deserve this life? It’s my life. I’ve lived it, not you,” I shifted in my seat.
In a way I pitied him: He was alive, but living only to die, so that my life could be extended. But now he was free, no longer just my Clone, but his own person. It scared me, this copy of me, the thought of it living a separate life, or perhaps, as it hinted, wanted my life. And what of me? If I give him my life, where do I go?
“Imagine what it is like, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the day when you need a heart and I go under the knife. I die so you might live. What kind of life is that?” he stared directly into my eyes.
“What kind of life would you get from me? You aren’t me, you’re a copy. You exist to elongate my life. My life, not yours,” I could not hold his gaze.
“This is what it comes down to: You or me. It is the only way and it will happen with all of the Clones. We cannot share this life. You or me,” he grinned viciously.
Him or me. Can I kill myself?
28 March, 2008
14 March, 2008
Nowhere to Run to.
This story actually goes on for a bit more, but I'm not sure that I like where it's headed. So I'm posting this much. This story is my goal right now. Maybe not to finish it, but to at least figure out a real direction...
CmP
====================
I doubt if I even know what love is.
Those were the words, the final words, which were written (well, scribbled, scratched, and scrawled) on the last page of his journal. It was those words, or so everyone thinks, that made him do what he did.
Of course, no one thought anything until after the fact. Not because no one cared, which is true to an extent, but because no one found the journal until after it had all happened.
Now, if you’re asking me what I think, I don’t think it was those words that made him do anything. Those words were a conclusion, not the stimulus. If you’re asking me what the stimulus was, well, I’d tell you that I think the stimulus came from somewhere else. It came from someone else.
And that someone else?
None other than the international celebrity, Mister Uhru “The People’s Guru”.
I’ll admit, Mister Uhru probably didn’t have words specifically for him, but it was the Guru’s words, I’m certain, that put all of the proverbial wheels into motion.
And I quote, “There is a world out there that is only for you. And it is waiting. All you have to do is search for it. And you will find it. I am certain of that. You. Will. Find. It. But the search will not be an easy one. No. It will be long and arduous. But fear not, because that world is truly there. And once you have found it, you will have the answers to all of your questions. So go. And find your world.” Thus spake Mister Uhru.
Mister Uhru was a name created to evoke visions of foreign landscapes. It was equal parts Indian mysticism and Aboriginal dreamtime.
And it worked.
At its peak, The People’s Guru Mystical Vision Hour was the most watched show in seven different countries. Seven. One of which, of course, was the good ole’ US of A. Each Wednesday evening Mister Uhru went before his millions of viewers and told them exactly what they wanted to hear. But Mister Uhru wasn’t a televangelist. He was, as he put it in an interview, a hopemonger. He gave the masses hope. He told them that their maladies would get better, their lives would improve, and their stock portfolios were on the rise. He told them to be patient. And they, the millions of viewers, listened. They were patient. He created an entire generation of apathetics who were content with letting life take them where it had to go. No longer did anyone complain about his or her lot in life, they just repeated Mister Uhru’s clichéd mantra: “Good things come to those who wait.”
And the only thing that Mister Uhru asked for in return was complete loyalty to his sponsors. Of course, his sales pitch was never that straight forward. Mister Uhru hinted at the brand of toothpaste he used every morning. He just happened to let slip the brand of mustard he preferred on his Rueben sandwich, which just happened to be purchased from a certain chain of restaurants. On the surface Mister Uhru preached patience and tranquility, but underneath it all was a message to buy buy buy. Because if Mister Uhru was truly as happy as he said he was, then happiness must obviously be found in imitating Mister Uhru.
And it worked. Mister Uhru was a millionaire and his millions of viewers were content.
But then came an undercurrent of scandal. The news networks, fearful of upsetting a viewer base that was completely dependent on Mister Uhru, leaked it gently at first. They offered brief snippets of a big story right before cutting to commercial. They ran the meaty stuff late at night, when no one would be watching.
But some of us were.
Mister Uhru “The People’s Guru” was being accused of pedophilia. And unfortunately, like so many others, he had been foolish enough to record his transgressions. There was no mistaking Mister Uhru, with his dark tan and his bald, shiny head. Not to mention that he committed the heinous acts in the same vanilla ice cream suit that he wore every Wednesday evening. It was an open and close case and Mister Uhru would be going away for some time.
No sooner had the press leaked the news about his indictment than Mister Uhru announced the end of The People’s Guru Mystical Vision Hour. There would be one final farewell, a spectacular like no other. Mister Uhru didn’t even wait for the following Wednesday. Instead, he held the spectacular on a Friday night. His spectacular wasn’t really any different than any other night, but he ended it all with his speech, the speech, about finding that personal world. And then it was over. Mister Uhru was no more. His following of millions, previously content with just sitting there and taking it, were confused. His final message had advocated doing something. Actually getting out there and making something of yourself. Had everything he preached meant absolutely nothing?
I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?
I’d been eating an inordinate amount of peanut butter. Which might explain the bad dreams. It might also explain the urgent need to void my bowels that struck me in the middle of the night. Normally, this wouldn’t be a tough problem to clear up. All it required was a jaunt to the privy and a good twenty to thirty minutes.
I, however, wasn’t in my own bed. I wasn’t even in my own building. And the thought of spending twenty to thirty in an unknown bathroom stall made me shudder.
The good news, however, was that my building was next door and there were only three flights of stairs between me and the comforts of my usual toilet stall.
I, however, would have to free my arm from its current position before going anywhere.
“Chase,” I whispered.
“Hmm,” came the dreamy reply.
“Chase, I need to move my arm. It’s asleep,”
She intertwined her fingers with the fingers of my hand and smiled, “It’s all a matter of who gets to the car first, sir.” She wasn’t actually awake. I was talking to her in her dream.
“What? Chase, I need to move my arm.” I pulled gently, but her fingers tightened their grip. My stomach bubbled like a water cooler.
“If they’re in the car, then it’s just going to have to be a long walk. No more.”
I rolled my eyes and my head backwards in disbelief. I reached across her body and tried to release her hand from mine, but she just grabbed my free hand with her other hand. Now I was trapped on both sides.
“Chase, c’mon,” I pleaded, “you gotta let go of my hands, please!” My stomach continued to rumble and it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie still.
“Just let him return the jacket if he wants. It’s all a game and you know it.”
Sweat was forming on my brow and I was worried about becoming incontinent right there in her bed. “Chase!” I raised my voice, hoping to stir her from her slumber.
“Hmm,” the reply this time was a little less dreamy.
“I need you to let go of my hands and let me move my arm.”
She let out a protesting grunt and released my hands. As she lifted her head, and I withdrew my arm, her bottom lip jutted out in a sad pout. “But you’re so comfortable,” she said.
“I’ll be back, promise.” I slowly sat up and threw one leg over her. As I brought the other over, I lost my equilibrium and I fell to the floor. But she didn’t move.
I slipped on my jeans and bolted from the room, barefoot and shirtless. I left the exterior door to her apartment open slightly so that I could creep back in when I returned. I turned and ran to the stairwell. I quickly descended the one flight of stairs and stepped out into the cool October night.
The crisp fall air took my breath for a moment, and, as I stood to catch it, I looked up at the night sky between the residence buildings. I couldn’t make out any constellations other than Orion, but his belt was clearly lit against the ether. My rumbling stomach brought me back to attention and I sprinted to my building. I bounded up the stairs two at a time, and with my head down. The only thought on my mind was to make it to the bathroom.
CmP
====================
I doubt if I even know what love is.
Those were the words, the final words, which were written (well, scribbled, scratched, and scrawled) on the last page of his journal. It was those words, or so everyone thinks, that made him do what he did.
Of course, no one thought anything until after the fact. Not because no one cared, which is true to an extent, but because no one found the journal until after it had all happened.
Now, if you’re asking me what I think, I don’t think it was those words that made him do anything. Those words were a conclusion, not the stimulus. If you’re asking me what the stimulus was, well, I’d tell you that I think the stimulus came from somewhere else. It came from someone else.
And that someone else?
None other than the international celebrity, Mister Uhru “The People’s Guru”.
I’ll admit, Mister Uhru probably didn’t have words specifically for him, but it was the Guru’s words, I’m certain, that put all of the proverbial wheels into motion.
And I quote, “There is a world out there that is only for you. And it is waiting. All you have to do is search for it. And you will find it. I am certain of that. You. Will. Find. It. But the search will not be an easy one. No. It will be long and arduous. But fear not, because that world is truly there. And once you have found it, you will have the answers to all of your questions. So go. And find your world.” Thus spake Mister Uhru.
Mister Uhru was a name created to evoke visions of foreign landscapes. It was equal parts Indian mysticism and Aboriginal dreamtime.
And it worked.
At its peak, The People’s Guru Mystical Vision Hour was the most watched show in seven different countries. Seven. One of which, of course, was the good ole’ US of A. Each Wednesday evening Mister Uhru went before his millions of viewers and told them exactly what they wanted to hear. But Mister Uhru wasn’t a televangelist. He was, as he put it in an interview, a hopemonger. He gave the masses hope. He told them that their maladies would get better, their lives would improve, and their stock portfolios were on the rise. He told them to be patient. And they, the millions of viewers, listened. They were patient. He created an entire generation of apathetics who were content with letting life take them where it had to go. No longer did anyone complain about his or her lot in life, they just repeated Mister Uhru’s clichéd mantra: “Good things come to those who wait.”
And the only thing that Mister Uhru asked for in return was complete loyalty to his sponsors. Of course, his sales pitch was never that straight forward. Mister Uhru hinted at the brand of toothpaste he used every morning. He just happened to let slip the brand of mustard he preferred on his Rueben sandwich, which just happened to be purchased from a certain chain of restaurants. On the surface Mister Uhru preached patience and tranquility, but underneath it all was a message to buy buy buy. Because if Mister Uhru was truly as happy as he said he was, then happiness must obviously be found in imitating Mister Uhru.
And it worked. Mister Uhru was a millionaire and his millions of viewers were content.
But then came an undercurrent of scandal. The news networks, fearful of upsetting a viewer base that was completely dependent on Mister Uhru, leaked it gently at first. They offered brief snippets of a big story right before cutting to commercial. They ran the meaty stuff late at night, when no one would be watching.
But some of us were.
Mister Uhru “The People’s Guru” was being accused of pedophilia. And unfortunately, like so many others, he had been foolish enough to record his transgressions. There was no mistaking Mister Uhru, with his dark tan and his bald, shiny head. Not to mention that he committed the heinous acts in the same vanilla ice cream suit that he wore every Wednesday evening. It was an open and close case and Mister Uhru would be going away for some time.
No sooner had the press leaked the news about his indictment than Mister Uhru announced the end of The People’s Guru Mystical Vision Hour. There would be one final farewell, a spectacular like no other. Mister Uhru didn’t even wait for the following Wednesday. Instead, he held the spectacular on a Friday night. His spectacular wasn’t really any different than any other night, but he ended it all with his speech, the speech, about finding that personal world. And then it was over. Mister Uhru was no more. His following of millions, previously content with just sitting there and taking it, were confused. His final message had advocated doing something. Actually getting out there and making something of yourself. Had everything he preached meant absolutely nothing?
I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?
I’d been eating an inordinate amount of peanut butter. Which might explain the bad dreams. It might also explain the urgent need to void my bowels that struck me in the middle of the night. Normally, this wouldn’t be a tough problem to clear up. All it required was a jaunt to the privy and a good twenty to thirty minutes.
I, however, wasn’t in my own bed. I wasn’t even in my own building. And the thought of spending twenty to thirty in an unknown bathroom stall made me shudder.
The good news, however, was that my building was next door and there were only three flights of stairs between me and the comforts of my usual toilet stall.
I, however, would have to free my arm from its current position before going anywhere.
“Chase,” I whispered.
“Hmm,” came the dreamy reply.
“Chase, I need to move my arm. It’s asleep,”
She intertwined her fingers with the fingers of my hand and smiled, “It’s all a matter of who gets to the car first, sir.” She wasn’t actually awake. I was talking to her in her dream.
“What? Chase, I need to move my arm.” I pulled gently, but her fingers tightened their grip. My stomach bubbled like a water cooler.
“If they’re in the car, then it’s just going to have to be a long walk. No more.”
I rolled my eyes and my head backwards in disbelief. I reached across her body and tried to release her hand from mine, but she just grabbed my free hand with her other hand. Now I was trapped on both sides.
“Chase, c’mon,” I pleaded, “you gotta let go of my hands, please!” My stomach continued to rumble and it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie still.
“Just let him return the jacket if he wants. It’s all a game and you know it.”
Sweat was forming on my brow and I was worried about becoming incontinent right there in her bed. “Chase!” I raised my voice, hoping to stir her from her slumber.
“Hmm,” the reply this time was a little less dreamy.
“I need you to let go of my hands and let me move my arm.”
She let out a protesting grunt and released my hands. As she lifted her head, and I withdrew my arm, her bottom lip jutted out in a sad pout. “But you’re so comfortable,” she said.
“I’ll be back, promise.” I slowly sat up and threw one leg over her. As I brought the other over, I lost my equilibrium and I fell to the floor. But she didn’t move.
I slipped on my jeans and bolted from the room, barefoot and shirtless. I left the exterior door to her apartment open slightly so that I could creep back in when I returned. I turned and ran to the stairwell. I quickly descended the one flight of stairs and stepped out into the cool October night.
The crisp fall air took my breath for a moment, and, as I stood to catch it, I looked up at the night sky between the residence buildings. I couldn’t make out any constellations other than Orion, but his belt was clearly lit against the ether. My rumbling stomach brought me back to attention and I sprinted to my building. I bounded up the stairs two at a time, and with my head down. The only thought on my mind was to make it to the bathroom.
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