Remember when you came up with this great plan to cut yourself just to feel _something_? Only, after you finally got the rasor out of your mom’s leg shaver you chickened out and so instead you went into the little secret hiding place you made in the back of your closet and cried yourself asleep?
Ok. That never happened.
But remember how you figured all that out. That you would like that to happen? Remember?
Remember how you said when you broke up with her, you would feel like a building was faling down around you? And when she broke up with you, you didn’t feel anything? Remember that?
Remember how you cried and cried, but you didn’t really want to cry, you just thought you were _supposed_ to be crying so you did? Remember how you really just wanted to stay in your room for the rest of the month, not crying? Remember how you used to hide in the garden shed for days at a time so your parents wouldn’t know you weren’t going to school, but you didn’t want to go anywhere where you might have to see someone, so you sat in the garden shed for weeks and weeks reading through four years of playboys from the mid 1980’s? Rememer how you couldn’t find the June 1986 edition, and it kind of pissed you off becuase that had the conclusion of a long running short-fiction story you’d really enjoyed reading.
Remember how you started smoking then, and you couldn’t believe how much you liked the way the cigarettes tasted, but not the way they smelled.
More stories are coming.
One Day.
Honest.
They never just went bang. That was the problem with them. They always sizzled or beeped first and that was not nearly as satisfying as a simple staccato report would have been.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, there was no need for the bang. It was just a simple little burst of sound that augmented the whole proceedure. And it was kind of scary. But mostly, it was just a bang. Disapointing.
Nobody asked after the Bang. When the bang stayed up late nights he stayed up alone. He sobbed gently into his hot green tea, served at just pre-boiling temperatures and steeped for exactly three minutes— and not a second more. HE had a special timer just for his tea, did Bang.
“It’s not that simple,” I said.
“Oh, this modern age,” said she.
I am sitting on an overstuffed love seat. It feels freshly uphoulstered, but not new. The fabric on the cushions has the faintest smell of bleach. She, my therapist, is sitting on a well worn wicker rocker. It’s upholsterery— a couple of threadbare seat cushions, is obviously not new, and probably smells not of bleach, but of years of wear and tear, especially on the part where she rests her elbows when she leans in to give the appearance of paying her clients rapt attention.
She’s leaned in on her elbows now, and I assume she’s paying rapt attention to me— because that’s what her body language tells me. And, I assume, that is actually what she’s doing, too, or else what am I paying her for?
I am, I should note, not crazy. I chose to come to see my therapist. For me, it is a great value. As she was lamenting the modern age with feigned distress, I might have guessed she was frustrated with the back seat that her profession had taken to technology in recent years, but I thought I knew her better.
In todays world mood regulation was a product bought and sold freely, and, for the most part, without regulation. Calm. Serious. Studious. Compassionate. All brand names of highly regulated super drugs. Party sold best on Thursdays, oddly enough— but I digress.
So, why then, do I find myself, week after week, returning to my therapist- when a simple twice-daily cocktail of Relax and Work Hard would probably suit me just fine. Oh this modern world.
I already said, I find it a great value. I like to pay someone to listen to me. And I think she likes to listen. Or, at least, she does a great job of _appearing_ like she likes to listen.
“It’s not that simple,” I say again. “I just want to know who I am.”
“We all do, Peter,” she said. “We all do.”
I notice that there is a new box of tissues on the counter between us. It carries the Ely Lilly logo on one side. I wonder what this could mean, but then It comes to me.
Dr. Rivers leaned back from his terminal, flipping the pen across his desk and spinning the thumbwheel to make the screen whirl back and forth.
“Yeah, See. There’s nothing there. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s a crime.”
“Sure it is, Pete,” said Robert Grinder; “They don’t do have of the great stuff we do here.”
I looked across at my liaison and raised one eyebrow. Was this guy for real?
“See,” said Dr. Rivers, leaning in to me and lowering his elocution level as if he were speaking to a small child, “They think that they can say they’ve got it all made because they run a battery of tests, right?”
He paused, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I nodded him on.
“But I don’t need 40,000 credits worth of tests to know that there’s something wrong with this kid, right?” Another pause. Another nod. “He wouldn’t be coming here if there wasn’t something wrong with him.” He looked over to Grinder for confirmation and Grinder shot him back a loud, raucous laugh, confirming my first and primary suspicion about the man; he was a suck up.
Science had solved man kind’s medical problems— but no matter what kind of genome mapping, rotovirus RNA-implanting stem-cell regenerating bio-nuclear petri dish mumbo jumbo you threw at mankind, some people were still assholes.
“Yeah, See. There’s nothing there. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s a crime.”
“Sure it is, Pete,” said Robert Grinder; “They don’t do have of the great stuff we do here.”
I looked across at my liaison and raised one eyebrow. Was this guy for real?
“See,” said Dr. Rivers, leaning in to me and lowering his elocution level as if he were speaking to a small child, “They think that they can say they’ve got it all made because they run a battery of tests, right?”
He paused, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I nodded him on.
“But I don’t need 40,000 credits worth of tests to know that there’s something wrong with this kid, right?” Another pause. Another nod. “He wouldn’t be coming here if there wasn’t something wrong with him.” He looked over to Grinder for confirmation and Grinder shot him back a loud, raucous laugh, confirming my first and primary suspicion about the man; he was a suck up.
Science had solved man kind’s medical problems— but no matter what kind of genome mapping, rotovirus RNA-implanting stem-cell regenerating bio-nuclear petri dish mumbo jumbo you threw at mankind, some people were still assholes.
Water dribbled across the yard, slowly slopping across the gardens and flooding out through the mulch and landscaping. When it hit the large flat concrete surfaces it traveled more easily— less organically— and faster too.
It was at the sidewalks, Rose Kingsford thought, that we shall put in our boats. The sidewalks, she hoped, would carry her ship, the supply barges that followed it, and her people outside the walled confines of the yard and beyond. What lie behind she couldn’t know, but she alone had decided it was time to move her people, and she alone would make the choices that would either lead to their doom or salvation.
She had, of course, every reason to believe that beyond the walls and fences there were places where her tribe could flourish. She’d been shown those places by an anicent mystic— the same one who had delivered the proficy of distruction that woud befall the yard.
She allowed herslef a rare smile as she watched the water dribble out of the grassed areas and into the concrete sidwalks where it gained speed and purpose. This was going to be a hell of a ride. While in the grasses, the onslaughts of water were crushing, slow moving death and entrapment, on the sidewalks, the waters unstoppable power would be their ally. And, she chuckled, it might even be a little fun.
She decided to head back to the vilalge to tell her advisory council what she’d decided. The sidewalks would be their savior, and barring any nasty surprises beyond the gate, she was certain that her people could find a new yard to call their own. One free of th e plauge of the unending waters. One free of the infestations of insects. One free of random shifts and changes of the great mountains. But most importantly, one free of the great devil who’s shit clung to her asshairs.
It was at the sidewalks, Rose Kingsford thought, that we shall put in our boats. The sidewalks, she hoped, would carry her ship, the supply barges that followed it, and her people outside the walled confines of the yard and beyond. What lie behind she couldn’t know, but she alone had decided it was time to move her people, and she alone would make the choices that would either lead to their doom or salvation.
She had, of course, every reason to believe that beyond the walls and fences there were places where her tribe could flourish. She’d been shown those places by an anicent mystic— the same one who had delivered the proficy of distruction that woud befall the yard.
She allowed herslef a rare smile as she watched the water dribble out of the grassed areas and into the concrete sidwalks where it gained speed and purpose. This was going to be a hell of a ride. While in the grasses, the onslaughts of water were crushing, slow moving death and entrapment, on the sidewalks, the waters unstoppable power would be their ally. And, she chuckled, it might even be a little fun.
She decided to head back to the vilalge to tell her advisory council what she’d decided. The sidewalks would be their savior, and barring any nasty surprises beyond the gate, she was certain that her people could find a new yard to call their own. One free of th e plauge of the unending waters. One free of the infestations of insects. One free of random shifts and changes of the great mountains. But most importantly, one free of the great devil who’s shit clung to her asshairs.
Marion looked down at her hands, which were dripping with blood. Maybe she’d pressed a little too hard. Yes. that was it. She pressed to hard. She just needed to get the blood cleaned up and someone would fix this for her. She just needed to get the blood cleaned up and find her phone and it would all come out ok. She just had to call.
Her heart raced and the bottom of her feet felt disconnected from her legs, almost like floating, except on pilows of panic. She felt like she could run away— she wanted to run away, but she had to try to fix this. She hadn’t meant to press so hard. Who knew? How was she supposed to know.
“I need to find my phone,” she said, absently wiping her bloody hands on her thighs. Streaking burgandy stains from kneecap to mid thigh. “So much blood,” she said. Nobody was near to listen, but her voice waiverd and cracked when she spoke. She was breatless and skittery, clinging only to her need for her phone. Get the phone. Clean the blood. Save the world. It will all be ok. We’ll get through this, she thought. It will be ok.
Her heart raced and the bottom of her feet felt disconnected from her legs, almost like floating, except on pilows of panic. She felt like she could run away— she wanted to run away, but she had to try to fix this. She hadn’t meant to press so hard. Who knew? How was she supposed to know.
“I need to find my phone,” she said, absently wiping her bloody hands on her thighs. Streaking burgandy stains from kneecap to mid thigh. “So much blood,” she said. Nobody was near to listen, but her voice waiverd and cracked when she spoke. She was breatless and skittery, clinging only to her need for her phone. Get the phone. Clean the blood. Save the world. It will all be ok. We’ll get through this, she thought. It will be ok.
Monkey on my leg, I tried to stand brave and tall as the swarm enveloped me. It was hard. I didn’t want to be left behind, but traveling via the swarm was so weird and uncomfortable.
A countless number of pearly beetles swing around me, enveloping me as they traveled in a cyclonic fashion. I closed my eyes to try to keep from freaking out about it, but as soon as the bugs tiny metallic feet and wings started tickling my bare skin, I opened them. Yes. It was defiantly better to keep your eyes open and get visual reassurance that this creeping crawling swarm was the nano-tech I knew they to be, and not some imaginary squirming flock of real insects.
As soon as my entire body was covered— face too— the swam coalesced. I could feel the airy spaces on the bugs disappear and meld together. At that point, I was encased in a shell of swarming writhing beetles and was nearly panicked when the drugs kicked in. Mmmm. drugs.
I was unaware now, as the swarm lifted my and the monkey’s body off the soil, tugging me up intot he sky and away from the ground by my shoulders and waist. After they’d reached a significant altutude— I was too high to really see or estiamte how high — they took off like a shot, pulling my bug-encased body through the atmosphere, rocketing me to my desitnation. Warp bugs. How I hated traveling by the warp bugs.
A countless number of pearly beetles swing around me, enveloping me as they traveled in a cyclonic fashion. I closed my eyes to try to keep from freaking out about it, but as soon as the bugs tiny metallic feet and wings started tickling my bare skin, I opened them. Yes. It was defiantly better to keep your eyes open and get visual reassurance that this creeping crawling swarm was the nano-tech I knew they to be, and not some imaginary squirming flock of real insects.
As soon as my entire body was covered— face too— the swam coalesced. I could feel the airy spaces on the bugs disappear and meld together. At that point, I was encased in a shell of swarming writhing beetles and was nearly panicked when the drugs kicked in. Mmmm. drugs.
I was unaware now, as the swarm lifted my and the monkey’s body off the soil, tugging me up intot he sky and away from the ground by my shoulders and waist. After they’d reached a significant altutude— I was too high to really see or estiamte how high — they took off like a shot, pulling my bug-encased body through the atmosphere, rocketing me to my desitnation. Warp bugs. How I hated traveling by the warp bugs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, standing above me. I shook my hand feebly at him, reaching, clawing for a way to get at him, to hurt him. To break him. It was pointless.
“It was pointless,” he said, grinding his boot on my temple. I could bearly move my hands; I twisted and grasped but I was spent. My arms didn’t move where I tried to place them, and my fingers bearly moved at all, regardless.
He stepped off my head and I rolled away from him as best I could. I got over onto my back and the pain in my hip stopped me from continuing to try and roll. I coughed and sputtered, and he leaned over me, bending down to look into my face.
The light focused around him then, white and hot, fuzzy around the edges— I could tell I was slipping out of consciousness.
“You’re not gonna pass out now, you little fuck,” he said.
And, in spite of my mind and body screaming back at me, “Yes, yes you are,” I stayed concious. I stayed with him.
“This is mine,” he said. “This moment is mine. I earned this.”
He reached down and grabbed my head with his hands. His giant hands reached easily around my head, and it was equally as easy for him to pick me up and stand me up against a wall.
My legs gave out and I slummped back down the wall— the hip screaming in pain again. Where he’d stabbed me. Kicked me, Burnt me, and then shot me. Not nessessarily in that order.
I was a mess. I could see that. I had no feeling— no sensation other than the pain in my hips. Why didn’t my body go into shock? I’d always belived the body was supposed to shut down in extreeme cases like this. Why did I have to be awake for this?
“I suppose you’re wondering why you have to be awake for this,” he said. He walked up to me, kicking one of my folded legs out from under his foot with his toe. He crouched and looked directly into my face.
“Because this is mine.” He laughed and I could feel his hot breath on my face. “This is my right. To make you see this. To make you feel this. You deserve this— and I deserve it more.”
The ringing in my ears abated for a second— as I realized that the single poke I’d taken at him— the single, awkward hamfisted haymaker I’d thrown durring the tussle that had left me this boroken and beaten, had connected.
I smiled and started to chuckle back at him— and he flinched. I had him. “Your lip,” I said.
“It was pointless,” he said, grinding his boot on my temple. I could bearly move my hands; I twisted and grasped but I was spent. My arms didn’t move where I tried to place them, and my fingers bearly moved at all, regardless.
He stepped off my head and I rolled away from him as best I could. I got over onto my back and the pain in my hip stopped me from continuing to try and roll. I coughed and sputtered, and he leaned over me, bending down to look into my face.
The light focused around him then, white and hot, fuzzy around the edges— I could tell I was slipping out of consciousness.
“You’re not gonna pass out now, you little fuck,” he said.
And, in spite of my mind and body screaming back at me, “Yes, yes you are,” I stayed concious. I stayed with him.
“This is mine,” he said. “This moment is mine. I earned this.”
He reached down and grabbed my head with his hands. His giant hands reached easily around my head, and it was equally as easy for him to pick me up and stand me up against a wall.
My legs gave out and I slummped back down the wall— the hip screaming in pain again. Where he’d stabbed me. Kicked me, Burnt me, and then shot me. Not nessessarily in that order.
I was a mess. I could see that. I had no feeling— no sensation other than the pain in my hips. Why didn’t my body go into shock? I’d always belived the body was supposed to shut down in extreeme cases like this. Why did I have to be awake for this?
“I suppose you’re wondering why you have to be awake for this,” he said. He walked up to me, kicking one of my folded legs out from under his foot with his toe. He crouched and looked directly into my face.
“Because this is mine.” He laughed and I could feel his hot breath on my face. “This is my right. To make you see this. To make you feel this. You deserve this— and I deserve it more.”
The ringing in my ears abated for a second— as I realized that the single poke I’d taken at him— the single, awkward hamfisted haymaker I’d thrown durring the tussle that had left me this boroken and beaten, had connected.
I smiled and started to chuckle back at him— and he flinched. I had him. “Your lip,” I said.
“What happened? Who did that? What happened?” She asked again and again, only less enthusiastic each time. “I don’t want to spend the day,” finally she siad.
“You don’t want to spend the day where?” I asked.
“You don’t want to spend the day where?” I asked again.
“I don’t want the clock to ring. I don’t want the egg to ring.”
“She never wants the egg to ring,” her mother told me once. I’d forgotten, but it was true.
She, in fact, hated it when the egg would ring. It told her that time was up. And time should never be up. Time moves downward, spirals. In circles. To the left and to the right, but never up.
In fact, the only thing that moved “up” were ladders and stairs. And hey didn’t move up, they simply went up. It’s a zen thing, I think. I tried not to think about it.
The egg rang.
“DOn’t ring that!” she said.
“Who said that?” she asked.
“The Egg,” I said.
“I don’t want the egg to make that noise,” she said.
“It’s done now,” I said.
“You don’t want to spend the day where?” I asked.
“You don’t want to spend the day where?” I asked again.
“I don’t want the clock to ring. I don’t want the egg to ring.”
“She never wants the egg to ring,” her mother told me once. I’d forgotten, but it was true.
She, in fact, hated it when the egg would ring. It told her that time was up. And time should never be up. Time moves downward, spirals. In circles. To the left and to the right, but never up.
In fact, the only thing that moved “up” were ladders and stairs. And hey didn’t move up, they simply went up. It’s a zen thing, I think. I tried not to think about it.
The egg rang.
“DOn’t ring that!” she said.
“Who said that?” she asked.
“The Egg,” I said.
“I don’t want the egg to make that noise,” she said.
“It’s done now,” I said.
“Roses have never grown like this on this plat of land before,” is what I would have said, had there been any roses growing. I’d spent most of my morning getting geared up to be impressed and overwhlemed by the sheer volume of roses my students had nurtured to beautiful, living works of art on the abandoned plat of dry, dusty land I had left them in six months prior.
As part of their final exam, I’d left them in an airid patch of land owned by the university just southeast of the South Dakota Badlands. They had been given room, board, and ample bandwidth for communication and educational purpoeses. Each student was allowed to select six strains of rose to bring with them, and they were to, by the end of their six month sabattical, have created a rose that would prospoer in the Badlands climes.
They were given access to anything and everything the could need horticulturally, no questions asked — It was a landmark grant that I’d won— funded by the South Dakota Rose Foundation. We only needed one student to succeed to secure the conditions of the grant— and it appeared— at least by first glance— that none of the students had.
“There is not one among you who has grown a rose of any sort?” I asked my seven most promising proteges. They didn’t need to answer. I watched them paw at the grond with thier toes, and stare vapildy at the dusty sands blowing across their boots to know that noen of them had. “NO roses? Not one rose?” I repeated.
Kelly Sanders, one of my most promising students up until this point, steped foraward. Not daring to look me or any member of the presentation board in the eye, she scrunched up her face before she spoke— as if squinting would somehow make it all better.
“It’s just that,” she said, hesitatating, a little, and then spitting out, “It’s just that growing roses, is, like, hard and stuff.”
She stepped back in line and continued her study of the top of her boots.
My rage and shock stole from me then, my ability to speak. I gasped, I squeeked, but I could not speak.
As part of their final exam, I’d left them in an airid patch of land owned by the university just southeast of the South Dakota Badlands. They had been given room, board, and ample bandwidth for communication and educational purpoeses. Each student was allowed to select six strains of rose to bring with them, and they were to, by the end of their six month sabattical, have created a rose that would prospoer in the Badlands climes.
They were given access to anything and everything the could need horticulturally, no questions asked — It was a landmark grant that I’d won— funded by the South Dakota Rose Foundation. We only needed one student to succeed to secure the conditions of the grant— and it appeared— at least by first glance— that none of the students had.
“There is not one among you who has grown a rose of any sort?” I asked my seven most promising proteges. They didn’t need to answer. I watched them paw at the grond with thier toes, and stare vapildy at the dusty sands blowing across their boots to know that noen of them had. “NO roses? Not one rose?” I repeated.
Kelly Sanders, one of my most promising students up until this point, steped foraward. Not daring to look me or any member of the presentation board in the eye, she scrunched up her face before she spoke— as if squinting would somehow make it all better.
“It’s just that,” she said, hesitatating, a little, and then spitting out, “It’s just that growing roses, is, like, hard and stuff.”
She stepped back in line and continued her study of the top of her boots.
My rage and shock stole from me then, my ability to speak. I gasped, I squeeked, but I could not speak.
The dust was blowing in streaks across the dissheveled blocks of cement that served as sidewalks along the pow-wow bowl. A man and a little girl stepped out; her hand reached up and grabbed his finger, and they walked along. Across the street, and over the field of crushed and mangled white clovers, a set of girls watched them cross the street. Nobody smiled. Nobody laughed. Everyone loitered. More dust blew.
Space travel had always been possible, easy even. You just had to get over the initial difficulty of ascending the earth’s gravitation. Some ancient people of what are now know as the south americas mananaged to do it by constructing what ammounted to, esentially, a very long ramp.
To these people, the challenge of traveling to the top of the earth was no less a multi-generational effort than today’s cross-solar system travels. Generations completed the work of generations before them, unsure why, sometimes, but always making progress of one kind or another, Building upward. They made offerings to the skies above them and received offerings from the lands below. And so on.
These days, Sol Langstrom thought a lot about those ancient people. For years eons even, the people of earth believed that ancient beings from beyond the solar system had sent down secret knowledge to the South Americans. They couldn’t fathom that the giant circular structures and markings left behind, long after the tower had collapsed and their culture, as all cultures do, had dissipated into the ashes of time.
The people of earth could not accept that ancient men, just like themselves, had built giant structures, climbed them until the air became poor and the sun would not heat their bodies or grow their crops, and then fell from them, destroying untold generations of work in the process. It was easier to belive that outsiders had been here. They even had folklore that described the collapse of the tower.
The tale of the Tower of Babel, which told of an angry deity that punished and lashed out against those who dared to go against his greatness. In a way, the folklore was kind of right. Except the angry deity and simply been time, and technological progress. Civil unrest and questioning the old ways caused the tower to collapse.
And really, the whole thing was a pretty sketchy idea anyway. Just what did they hope to achieve by poking their ancient heads up over the top of the earth’s atmosphere and taking a sad and empty look around the vacuum of space? Sol didn’t know.
Sadly, the reasons for the tower’s development had not been handed down. The histories had been lost. And without knowing the history, Sol shrugged, the people of earth were probably better off thinking so little of themselves, that it just _had_ to be outside forces that caused the tower to topple and erase itself from he earth. He shrugged.
They had a Wii on the shelf of the IronWood Michigan Super Wal-mart. I saw it. I looked at it through the glass. It was so cute and innocent. It looked up at me with it’s little sad Wii eyes and begged me to take it home with me. “I already have a Wii,” I said, more to myself than to the Wii behind the glass, playing with the other consoles. It stopped and scratched one of it’s corners with it’s hind leg and tumbled over awkwardly.
So. Cute.
“Do you think it would be alright,” I asked my wife, “if we just took it out and played with it a little?”
“You always get so upset,” she said. “You get weepy for days. ‘Oh, Dana, what do you think happened to that little Wii? Wasn’t it cute? Do you think It went to a good home? I hope it went to a good home.‘“Wiis
I shrugged. “Yeah. But look at him,” I said. “He’s so cute.”
“Or,” she continued, “you get that look in your eye and you, even though you know better, buy him and bring him home. What do we need with two? It’s a bad situation,” she said. ‘You can’t take him out and just play with him without getting attached and you know it,” she said. “Or did you forget the fiasco with the Saturns?”
“You’re right,” I said, sticking my hands in my jacket pockets— like that would somehow quell the urge to cuddle and snuggle the little Wii. “It’s so sad that they have him penned up in here, though,” I said. “He’s so cute, and he deserves a better life than this.”
“Honey,” she pleaded,exasperated. “Why do you even walk through here. You know you go through this every time you see one in the case.”
“I know,’ I said, “I just like to see them; I like to know they’re out there, you know?”
Would it really make you happy to bring him home?’ She asked.
“Probably. For a little while. Think of how the pair of them will play together. That would be kind of fun. I bet they’d really get along.”
“But can you really give both of them the attention they deserve.”
I didn’t say anything. She knew the answer to that. Between our daughter, my work, and my side jobs, I didn’t have time for the one Wii we already had. “Maybe we could just by a new controller, instead?” I asked.
“Ok, sweetie,” said Dana. “But no numb-chuck, Ok? Just a wiimote.”
I smiled, took a longing glance at the little Wii tumbling over a box of Wii-Fit and prancing around some Wii-play bundles. It had already forgotten me. “Good luck, little guy,” I said. “I sure hope you don’t end up on eBay.
It was a g-sharp on a g: held indefinitely. The buzzing and cracking of the failed streetlight outside his bedroom window hummed at a discordant g-sharp on G cord. Nearly impossible to ignore. UNless you were Public works, it would seem. Francis Carmina figured he probably ought to complain; it wasn’t reasonable to expect someone would just come along, hear the baleful chord, and fix the busted bulb, or starter, or whatever it was that made the damn thing drone on one lone set of unhappy notes all night long, throughout the night. It would come on at different times each night, dependent on the time that enough daylight faded to activate the streetlights on the block. He’d noticed that all the streetlights blinked on at the same time the sound started. He assumed that there was a master streetlight at some point on the block that told the other streetlights when to activate. It just didn’t make cost effective sense to put a photo-sensor in each light. And then each light would come on at a little different time, right? and wouldn’t the lights cancel each other out if each one was photo sensitive to the other? But a master light could be programmed smartly. And it explained the lights on the street’s unison behavior. But why didn’t the light outside his bed room come on? Why did it, instead, drone on a sustained, never ending g-sharp on G. Always humming. Forever Humming. Never stopping. He’d tried throwing things at it, but his aim was poor and his arm was weak, so even when he did hit the light, it changed nothing. He thought about getting a slingshot or making some kind of a potato gun or somehting, but his nanny would certainly punish him severely if she ever caught him with anything as foolish and dangerous as a shooter. So the droning carried on. Never ending. Never slowing down, except with the new day’s light, it was g-sharp on G untill the wheels fell off.
