Category: Fiction

exercises in fiction

The 2525 Pilgrimage

Inspired by a Zega & Evans song, released in the 1960s, called ‘In the Year 2525’.

The 2525 Pilgrimage by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

Centuries since Corona Virus Alpha hit Earth devastating our population, I sit here using a rusty blade, scraping marks in hope that I won’t be discovered by our monitors. We use this ancient fridge for storing clothing; working well for keeping moths out, my up-bringers and I sharing it. Now, it will bare these words for history.

At school, we’re told our ancestors used the fridges to keep carcasses fresh. It was a time when humans battled with each other, spoiling the planet with poisonous weapons. A time when people murdered Earth’s other inhabitants; selfishly eating animals, using them as a source of protein, they’d manufacture products from their carcases and enjoyed wearing animal skins, even using bones for medicinal broths and industrial glues.

I’ve never known a cold fridge. The harnessing of electrical power was outlawed for humans in 2050. For our safety, AI automatic droids maintain our planet’s electrical grids. Distribution and supply is strictly rationed to Necessary For Life organisations and not squandered by people.

I’m told my ‘need to create’ is an escalation of my illness, so I must be cautious. I’m a committed New Beginning Believer but the evilness of bad mental health remains. Managing to physically scrape one word a day has taken discipline. My addiction craves more, risking raising my heart rate to a detectable level.

Weeks after the Corona Virus Zeta variant attacked the planet in June 2030 a cohort study showed how vulnerable humans became when out of their homes. As a major medical discovery it saved billions of lives but had not been welcomed by all. Deadly violent protests spread across the world faster than the virus, destroying cities and towns, cutting utilities and leaving land scorched with fire.

It is history now, how it was necessary for AI to oversee human health for The Common Good and the protection of our species and our solar system. Our homes, for our safety, had to become human cages.

Robots now distribute our care, limiting human error. Armoured vehicles travel streets delivering water tablets and nutrition, monitoring our vital signs so we rarely starve if we are viable. Thankful, we watch through holes we’ve piped into the hives on our windows.

Foxes, snakes, sheep, wolves and deer roam outside our homes on cracked tarmac. The grass verges, left to grow naturally, encouraging wildlife, are now host to the genetic insects released to combat stray humans carrying disease. Building nests and hives around us they are able to monitor movements keeping AI informed of our well being.

State television transmits a basic program service with special entertainment on Saturday nights. Generally television informs us of how the latest health programme progresses, which locations are expecting the Build Back Better vaccination robots and the daily birth rate over death rate graph.

International Communications are impossible for most since the satellites were, for our safety, reconfigured using the same space drones that humans had invented for mining exploration. Anti vaccination terrorists had to be stopped from using the networks to organise resistance and had been blocking The New Beginning Faith broadcasts.

Automatic trucks collect human waste weekly from each street moving it to a collection point where it’s transported by crane into giant airships run on biofuel. These craft transport the sweet smelling load to the ocean where it is released for the marine life to feed upon. Diet, controlled by AI, allows us to now produce nutrient rich waste which is useful until our deaths.

Few natural humans, other than royalty, can safely move around outside. We don’t have the genetic makeup. Crane drivers have outside protective freedoms. Having a skill AI can’t master, they bare witness to how the Build Back Better system is working. I’m assigned a crane operator as my lover. I pray we’ll be fruitful.

Gratefully, I’m able to leave home once in a lifetime. I’ve been researching my Life Pathway Journey on the battery run Ethernet computer. It will be so exciting to see The London Eye. One has to be patient as the current female pilgrimage age is the first month after one’s fifty-fifth birthday.

I pray I will still be considered worthy.

The End.

Interference From Software

Let’s talk about interference. I live in England, UK. We are now post Brexit.

Am I the only one getting frustrated with the interference of programs online while I’m trying to write? From searching to editing, the robot programs ( whom you did not ask for help) interfere.

Predictive search…I can’t stand this.

I can type. I don’t need help….I know what I am going to search for….no matter how often I try I will never understand it’s predictions and it’s results.

I am pretty sure that Google is sexist. I cannot get my site listed for love or money. See the featured image of this article for my search results for my own site… However, I have had problems with google mail and youtube for years. In fact I just paid for google to recieve my emails which they’d locked up…bizarre. I got some messages from five years ago…

Anyhow, it’s not just google misbehaving.

Microsoft was my chosen program for writing and editing my books…I’m 51 years old, it’s familiar.

I’ve had my hotmail account since last century and this is not a stretch of the truth. It doesn’t appear to be working now, at all, I’m trying not to panic. Many of us are affected so I’m sure it will be soon be fixed…

I have faith in you microsoft to fix the hotmail…however Word is lost, I think.

Does anyone know of a writing and editing program which is not cloud based? I am having real security issues with word and microsoft. I’ve been locked out of one laptop completely as I accidently removed it from my devices….no way around this it seems, I cannot get the machine into the BIOS screen to safely reboot.

Thankfully, being an electrical nerd I have a few devices around so can usually manage to get one of my machines online…however, I am not an IT nerd and I am out of touch.

I’m using the paid for version of Word…just incase some of you are judging me lol.

Months ago, I spent days trying to retrieve some writing and editing. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you guys how frustrating and time consuming this is. It also messes with my general work writing planning as I think I’ve edited something but then find out it hasn’t been done after all.

Asking yourself whether you’ve written this or that for a character and having to read through to find out, takes time and messes with confidence.

I contacted microsoft about my missing files and edits. They ‘fixed’ the software and apologised for my loses. However, as a writer of fictional adventure it’s not so easy to find your place again…especially when you don’t have faith that your changes will be saved.

It’s slowed my writing down and I feel stuck. I’m learning on the job as I’m disabled and it’s the only thing I can currently do in my own time etc when I’m well enough. I get tired easily but am always thinking about plot lines and character plays. I suffer from memory fog so need to be able to write when I can with out too much hassle or remembering where I am.

I’m I really looking at buying a typewriter? Surely not? Where would I get ribbons???

Hopefully someone will see that there is a gap in the market for writers with unreliable broadband and memories.

Until then I write on a laptop which I have disabled the wifi on. The bulk of my work being stuck in word on this laptop. I’m grateful that I did a hard copy, printed off for my alpha reader. However, many adjustments have been made since then.

But it’s not just the logistics now, it’s the feeling of insecurity which is holding me up.

I would love to write offline but with editing assistance, spell check etc. Why is this impossible? What am I missing? Is the interference from software programs necessary? Spellcheck not being on here is bad enough…why not? It’s the simplest thing…

Cloud or nothing? I’m hoping someone will give me some advice here, I really don’t mind paying for the right software but it mustn’t be on a disk as I don’t have a diskdrive (who does now?) Gig pen software doesn’t appear to be a thing yet…? So, I realise I would need to download the software initially…there are so many editing programs but they are all cloud based from what I can see.

Thanks for reading.

Just One More Thing – Poem

Just One More Thing

 

His famous line

Always makes the villain swim

Speaks from dark wavy hair

They wonder why, preoccupied

He drags the murderer out

 

Crumbled pristine

Upon the scene

Polite with anorak

Of brown and cream

 

Evil geniuses come unstuck

When he pulls up

In the motor, clunk

His classic pile of junk

 

No motive and missing clues

His demeanour leads one to think

He knows not what to do

Rolls up with his squeaky clink

 

Bear with me one second.

After the grisly scene

See what you make of this

And, do you know what you mean?

 

Their social hints ignored

Smoking in his old French car

Swave stupidity and delivery makes them bored

Chugging on his cigar

 

Not a stylish guy

He’d still catch my eye

But he loves his misses

And would never try

 

You can almost hear

Their brains scream and shout

I love it as he makes his move

Victims unaware; he’s smooth

 

There is no where they can hide

Like a hound

He hunts them down

Then emotionally hammers

Them into the ground

 

Ah the gotcha moment

If they only knew Columbo’s head

As, into his trap,

They always tread

Then the violins come in.

 

The End.

By Samantha ‘unextraordinarybint’ Harris.

Written in June 2020.

This is about Peter Falk playing Columbo.

The Actor Peter Falk died in June 2011 at the age of 83.

When A Dragon Comes To Town – Illustrated Poem

When a dragon comes to town

It can turn life upside down

One can see the dragon’s toes

On both sides of the road

Eyes pop out of passers by

They can’t believe their eyes

whenADragonComestotown

Who can take the dragon down?

He’s bigger than a house.

Who comes forward with a plan?

A tiny, brave mouse.

The question was still asked

How can a mouse take a dragon down?

The mouse shouts out to the dragon,

“Hey, watch where you put your feet.

I’ll take you to the sweetest meats.”

whenADragonComestotown

Mouse took dragon from store to store

For the dragon it was a treat

whenADragonComestotown

Mouse gave him beer, wine and sausages

More than dragon could eat

Until the dragon could eat no more

He lay his head down upon the floor

whenADragonComestotown

Mouse worked quickly

Running all around

He tied that dragon down

With hammers and tacks

He tied him firm to the ground

And to this day that is where

Dragon can be found

whenADragonComestotown

The End.

 

How to trap an annoying dragon

by Samantha Harris copyright 2020

For Isabella and Devon

May you always be happy, healthy and prepared.

 

 

 

Crafting Pagan Style

The Bridget Cross

The intricately woven straw decoration that brighten churches throughout Britain at the time of Harvest Festival have their origins not in the christian religion but in the beliefs and the ideas stretching aback into prehistory.

The celebration of the harvest is steeped in legend and mythology, and centres around the story of Ceres the Earth Mother, goddess of all that grows out of the earth.

This is based on the theory that women once had complete control over production of food and distribution of services and supplies. As this legend is the same in every country around the globe it is probably more than a theory.

In 1973 in England is was still the custom in some areas of Britain for farmers to leave a row of wheat standing in the fields at the end of the harvest in the belief that bad luck will befall them if it is cut. The legend is that Ceres hides in the corn and to avenge what happened to her.

In some parts of England at least until 1900 as sheaf of corn would be left in the fields, and while it stood there no one was allowed to go into the field. When the sheaf was taken out, women and children were allowed to enter and glean through the stubble.

In another part of the country the last row of corn used to be beat down to the ground by the reapers who shouted, ‘There she is! Hit her.” And, “Knock her to the ground” – also “Don’t let her get away” – basically attempt to make the female creative energy from the remaining corn go back to the earth so the field would be abundant the following year.

It should be noted this book was produced by the AA. It goes on to say many divisive things in amongst normal things so kids don’t realise – or parents.

Sofa, So Good, So Long (Short Story)

A seagull pecked at the open stitch on my arm, remnants of a meal left by baby. The bird gobbled down the last piece of the frayed fabric and flew into the horizon. The dump was busy. The large machines working to break down the rubbish. They worked methodically. The skips came in at one end of the yard. They were turned out into a huge pile and then the machines would gather around the edges and eat.


The scene is very different to how I’ve spent most of my life. I’ve never been so wet. The glue between my joints so soft. My struts and bindings loose. I remember when I was as hard as rock. My springs taught and strong. The fabric, stretched across me, was deep grey; Teflon coated with fire resistance. Back then, my stylish beading hid every stitch I had.


I remember the smell on the shop floor. It was a clean but somehow dusty smell. The gleaming windows smelled strong, like vinegar. Also, I remember the odours of the different families trailing past, children crying, children laughing. Their parents clutching their tiny hands. My springs enjoying the feeling of the little feet jumping on me. The parents scolding them.


Mr and Mrs Gold came in one spring day. They had money from their wedding day and were expecting their first child. When they saw me, they looked at each other. They came over and sat on me. As they touched hands the joy which swept through me was intense. I understood my purpose was to serve these human beings. Then, just like all the other couples, they got up and walked away.


I sensed them talking with the man who walked around with the clip board. He and I had a strange relationship. He didn’t sit on me. He would come up to me and push on my pillows. Then he would write something on his clip board. It was a while before Mr and Mrs Gold left the store. They all shook hands, then he put a large white board on me. No one else sat on me for the rest of the day.


The following morning, three women turned up with a large trolley and bundles of cardboard. They were laughing and joking between them until the man with the clip board shouted. They picked up a large plastic roll and wrapped me from my wooden, cubed feet up and over my back and around my cushions. They then pulled me up onto trolley and wheeled me off the shop floor.


A massive truck backed up to the warehouse loading bay and I was slid, ungraciously onto it. The man with clip board gave the truck driver a nod and took the trolley away. He looked at me when he pulled down the door until I was out of sight. I heard him lock the door and I grew a little anxious in the dark. I’d been in his sunny showroom for all my life and, to me, he was the most consistent human being I had known.


My fear at being bundled off the dirty truck and manhandled through a doorway, which was seemingly too small, was soon forgotten. It was the home of Mr and Mrs Gold. This was my family. They had chosen me. At full price too. Their home smelled like vanilla and roses.


Not like the smell of the decreasing pile of garbage I was currently part of. The seagull was back at me. Tugging at something buried deep in my back. Squawking loudly, it attracted four others. They hungrily tore me open. I felt the half-eaten biscuit, still partly in foil, jerked out from between my springs.

Remembering the intense feeling of devotion I felt as baby was sitting on me watching Peppa Pig. She’d felt so safe, so secure that she dropped her biscuit. So sure, that I would I look after it for her.


The gulls fought over their prize. Squabbling in the sky. Teasing me with their cries. As if I wasn’t aware of where I was. The machines are getting closer. Beneath my left leg is nothing but air. I am hanging on. I can see men with white hats pointing at me.

This was the last place I can stand. Soon I would tumble down the pile and be pulled apart by the metal mouthed monsters. I defy gravity and hang there, just for a moment longer. A shopping trolley is stuck into my bowels. It matters not to me. It allows me to view the world in one glorious flash as I fall.


By Samantha Harris