Microstory 2113: Forward to the Food

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 2

This is it. I’m about to turn myself in for having skipped town after agreeing to report to my social worker regularly. I got in a lot more trouble a lot quickerly than I expected, but I guess I always knew that it would end like this. It’s better than going down in a hail of gunfire, though, right? That was not an implausibility, I’ll say that much. Ever since I came to this world—and let’s face it, the world before this one—I’ve struggled with getting work, holding work, paying my bills, and just standing on my own two feet. A lot of people have been really patient and helpful with me, but it’s really done a number on my anxiety. As bad as jail sounds to me, at least I’ll have a place to sleep at night. As weird as it may sound to you, I’m most looking forward to the food. It’s not that I think it will be good, but I won’t have any other options. That’s where most of my money goes, and where my weight comes from. Carefully portioned...portions, and carefully planned eating times, will actually make life a lot simpler. I remember watching this video online a long time ago where an autistic character starts learning about how strict life is in prison, and decides that he wants to be part of it, because people like us thrive on procedures and protocols. It’s gonna suck in a lot of ways, like all the dangers that come with being around unpredictable and potentially violent people, but there are some benefits to it. As I said before, I’m tired of running anyway, so I’ll take whatever punishment I’m owed. By the time you read this, I’ll have walked into that police station. I may never get to tell you how it went, but don’t imagine the worst. I’m sure I’ll be fine.

Microstory 2071: Wake Up Clean

< > Table of Contents

Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image Duet AI software

I just reread my post from last week, and realized that I didn’t really tell you anything about myself, since I started going on and on about how the cosmos really works. So let’s do that now, but you still don’t have to read it. I was born in central Kansas, and moved around a lot in my youth. I suppose I moved around a lot as an adult too. I was a quiet kid, and people hated that about me. Have you ever had to deal with someone yelling in your ear incessantly? It’s like that, except I don’t make any noise, and I guess some people perceive that as just as irritating? My incessant silence: it doesn’t hurt your ears, but it hurts your heart, because you have an incessant need for attention, and if you’re around someone who doesn’t give it to you, it feels like dying. I spent many years pretending to be a regular person, and many years afterwards unraveling most of that so that I could become my true self. Then I started to develop my idea of what my best self would be, and tried to work towards that.

Here are a few random facts about me. I’m left-handed. I once knew a guy who was legit mad at me for wearing my watch on my right wrist. I may be left-handed because I was born with an extra finger on my right hand, which jacked up the joints. All of my fingers are crooked, and my hands hurt literally all the time, especially when I use them, which is why it’s so great that I’m a writer, because it doesn’t require the use of hands. I like baby rhinos, and hate pandas. On principle—but not in practical terms—I don’t believe in war, national borders, money, poverty, the inherent value of work, or religion. I think sex work should be legal, and recreational drugs should be illegal. I would rather lose a competition than win it, because it will always be more important to other people, and I don’t want them to feel bad.

Here are a few random facts about you: if you’re a smoker, you’re an idiot, and a bad person. It doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished, or what your IQ is. Only a total moron would poison themselves on purpose, and only an asshole would do it in a way that potentially causes harm to others. No matter how you die, as long as it’s not an accident or something, the smoke will either cause your death, or exacerbate it. It will never help you, nor remain neutral. There’s no logical reason for it. Some people like you, and some don’t. No one is hated by all. The human body is beautiful, and you shouldn’t be afraid of it. The toilet paper goes over the top, ‘cause gravity. Some of your food contains bug parts. It’s fine.

Here’s some random advice. Find your strength in school, and focus on that. Work half as hard at the things you struggle with. You’re never gonna be as good at them as you are with your best subject, and normal people don’t need to be good at everything to succeed. If you struggle with a subject for years on end, while doing fine in others, that’s your worst subject, and it’s never going to change. Smart people don’t suddenly become that way in adulthood after being unintelligent before. Some jobs require you to be committed and driven. Most of them, however, come with bosses that aren’t paying enough attention to you to reward good behavior. Your number one job in life is to find happiness, not build profit for your company. Never forget that every company needs you more than you need it. You could survive naked in the woods with nothing but your wits. Without labor and customers, a company doesn’t exist. Life is all that matters.

Shower before bed, so your bed is clean, and you wake up clean. Wash your hands. Clean everything else too. Let your children get dirty to build up their immune system.

Microstory 1863: Magnetic

< > Table of Contents

I’ve met, and heard about, voldisil before. There seems to be a consensus that each one of them is born with two spirit abilities. One is whatever specific special thing they can do. The other is simply knowing that that’s what they are. If I’m a voldisil, then I only have the first thing, and not the second. I’m not inherently conscious that there’s something different about me, but there must be, right? I mean, no single person can run into this many unusual people over the course of a lifetime. My home life was normal. My parents were normal, my half-brother was normal, my neighbors were normal. In high school, I started asserting my independence, which is very normal. As a result, I began to regularly leave my bubble behind, and met all sorts of—let’s call them quirky—characters. I think the first time I noticed it was when I was in psychology class. I had this thing where I would sit at the desk in the far corner of the room on the first day of school. The more interested I became in the subject, the farther up I would move, sometimes to great annoyance to the students who had already chosen their spots, and wanted to stay there. So it was the second day, and I still didn’t think I would want to move, when another kid sat next to me who I guess skipped the first day of school. He seemed to think that we were kindred spirits, even though we didn’t know each other. His big thing was serial killers. He signed up for that course so he could learn all about them. Fine, whatever; to each their own, but he wouldn’t stop pestering me about it. He wanted us to share in the passion for the topic, and I wasn’t into it. I found it difficult to move on the third day. People knew I did that by then, and even though I went in early to get a different seat, they kicked me out. But he was just the first. The first of many.

I could not go on a single blind date, or even a non blind date, without that date deciding that I wanted to hear their weird ideas, like how the stars weren’t real, and if animals don’t wear clothes, why do humans? One of them didn’t like to eat bread, which I’m sure doesn’t sound too crazy, but for me, it’s a non-starter. I met this one guy at a party who thought that water was trying to talk to us through the bubbling and jetting in fountains. A neighbor of mine when I got my own place kept sleepwalking into my unit. I even had the super change the locks, but that guy always managed to get in. Come to find out, he happened to be a thief, and while he wasn’t trying to steal from me, muscle memory occasionally drove him to break in to any door he saw. When I finally got a job, all of my coworkers were bizarre in their own special ways. I began to wonder if they were hired as part of some charity for flat-earthers and autistic people. I know, that sounds really insensitive, but it made me question my sanity, because if I was saying such things about them, what did others say about me? Were they the normal ones, and I was the weirdo? What if none of those people even existed, and I just made them all up in my padded cell? This continued throughout the rest of my life. I met a lot of regulars, to be sure, but the ratio of people I couldn’t understand or relate to seemed higher than it should be. Well anyway, I don’t think I have any superpowers. I don’t think I’m voldisil. I think it’s either dumb luck, or I’m particularly judgmental, and it’s something I never got over. Or it’s like my mom said, everyone’s a little strange, and part of what makes me unique is my tendency to pick up on people’s special traits. Yeah, that makes me sound kind of nice. I’m gonna go with that. I’m not a crazy person magnet. I’m a niche detector.

Microstory 1577: Watching History

< > Table of Contents

Prompt

My family and I are glued to the screen, watching the horror unfold before our eyes, which we painfully muse will one day demand the majority of pages in history books dedicated to this time period.

Botner

Americans are grasping for answers, finding themselves unable to even form a sense of understanding, let alone a coherent response. The media is seizing upon every small tidbit of information, only to discard it as irrelevant, when in fact the story of this nightmare may not be as complicated as it appears on the surface. The violent tragedy in Aurora, Colorado has become the final straw in a series of extremely divisive and emotionally charged social debates, from gun control to the treatment of those with mental illnesses. Let me be very clear, and as informed as possible. This violence is a hate crime. The perpetrator, [redacted], has a documented history of mental illness and a multitude of anti-social behavior and mental health issues. Additionally, a large number of literature highlighting his mentally ill tendencies. The link between mental health and mass shootings is painfully clear, and is the same in regards to the NPI (National Alliance on Mental Illness).

Conclusion

But let us not use mental health issues cloud and forgive personal accountability. So easy is it to let someone off the hook because there is something wrong with their brain. However, no amount of mental problems will lead someone to immediately, and suddenly, start killing people. Mass murderers are made over time, through years of trying out lesser evils, and not being treated properly. Someone who is like that cannot always seek help, but they must be given this help just the same. It is a systemic problem that can be corrected through social changes, policy updates, and a general sense of duty among all of us. I wasn’t diagnosed with autism until I was twenty-seven years old. My parents could not have understood what was going on with me, but my teachers should have had the training to see the signs, and the tools to seek guidance. I’m fine, I developed coping mechanisms, which have helped me survive, even when I didn’t understand myself. Others are not so lucky. Know this, though: even without the ability to test and evaluate each and every child, we should be more wary of just handing out guns to anyone who asks. At the very least, everyone who tries to buy one should undergo some sort of mental health evaluation. If you are deserving and worthy, then you should have no problem letting such legislation pass. If you think you’ll fail any test that the experts devise, then fail it, you should. That’s sort of the whole point. That’s all I’ll say about it.

Microstory 1361: My Mother

< > Table of Contents

Nick Fisherman: I see the tables have turned.

Tavis Highfill: I don’t own a table anymore. We got rid of it, because it was taking up too much space, and I just use TV trays.

Nick: You know what I mean. I’m the one interviewing you today.

Tavis: That’s right.

Nick: Was this planned from the very beginning?

Tavis: It was not. The other day, my sister suggested I write a piece about our mother for Mother’s Day. She arranged her own piece of music for her, and this will be my gift. And bonus, that’s one less “suitability interview” that I have to come up with.

Nick: Oh, that’s a nice idea. So, how about it? What can you tell me about your mother—our mother—uhh...

Tavis: I was diagnosed with autism when I was twenty-seven years old. But, of course, I was autistic my whole life; it just wasn’t something that we knew. My family had to make a lot of accommodations for me, because of how I was. I didn’t like certain foods, loud sounds bothered me, and my biggest problem was that I didn’t understand people. I don’t see the world the same way others do, and I just didn’t get why. None of us did. Had I received my diagnosis early on, I think it would have been easier for them. Even in the 1990s, they would have had resources. They would have been able to speak with mental health professionals, and had me speak with them. When I acted out, they would know why, and would be able to deal with it accordingly. But that isn’t what happened. My family had to develop ways to communicate with me on their own, with no help. My mother was particularly patient and compassionate, and I can never thank her enough for it. I’ve always had a very relaxed relationship with her. I can talk to her about anything, knowing that she’ll give me the best advice—not for just anyone—but for me specifically, because I require some very specific advice. Our relationship has only grown stronger with time.

Nick: Oh, interesting. Full disclosure, though; I’m only jumping in, because this seems like a logical place for a paragraph break.

Tavis: Yes. So, when my sister conceived this project, she said I could write a piece about mothers in general. But when I tried, I realized it probably wasn’t possible. There is just no comparing my mother to others. She’s special, and I know a lot of people say that, but she is. When I was very young, I heard something on TV about gay people, and at that point, that was a word I was not familiar with. I asked my mother what it meant, and she told me that some boys feel more comfortable with other boys, so they date each other, instead of girls. She said that the same is possible for girls. She never so much as hinted that it was wrong, or that I should treat such people differently. Diversity was celebrated in my family, and I don’t know how my parents did it. I don’t know how they freed themselves from the prejudices of their hometowns, in the time that they were living in them. However they did it, I grew up without those prejudices. I wasn’t raised to feel that I shouldn’t talk to the black children in my class. I wasn’t made to feel that there were certain expectations of me because of how I was born. They signed me up for tap dancing and gymnastics, and let me quit baseball when I wanted to. They never had to teach me to treat women with respect, because at no point did I make a mistake. They never needed to sit me down, and explain why women were equal. I didn’t realize until I was much older that women aren’t actually treated as equals in this world, because my parents created a world where that wasn’t true, and simply let me be in it. I hear about people trying to figure out how to teach their kids how to behave, but the best way to do that is by example. Raise them in a loving family, like I was, and it will just come naturally to them. That is what a mother does.

Nick: That’s lovely. Thank you for this, self. And to our readers, you can watch a special edition of my sister’s video series I-Miss-You Music Mondays right here.

Microstory 1201: Ira Park

< > Table of Contents

Ira Park was one of the good guys. He wasn’t raised to be a good person, so it was something he had to develop on his own by rejecting society’s outlook, particularly on women. He was probably autistic, though the field of psychology was severely lacking on Durus, since people were really just focused on surviving, or on oppressing half the population. Either way, he didn’t see the world in the same way he was expected to, and once his mage remnant time powers manifested, he knew how he was going to help. He had the ability to generate wards over a specified area or building. These protected the rightful owners of the space—which Ira could assign—against all intruders. They prevented unauthorized access using time powers, or just physical force. They were basically magical locks that limited admittance. Needless to say, his skills were in high demand for people looking to protect themselves, or just enjoy a higher level of privacy. At first, Ira worked for anyone who would hire him. He knew he had to develop his reputation, and grow his business, before he could use his powers for good. It was only after a few years that he started secretly protecting the rebel thicket. The thicket was an organization comprised primarily, but not exclusively of women. They fought against the oppressive abuses of the phallo-centric government, and sought a world of political and social equality. They weren’t violent, or even all that loud, which was probably why change came at such a slow pace, but they were not wholly ineffective. Their main responsibility was to rescue and harbor enemies of the state, and abused women who managed to find the courage to leave the men around them. In this capacity, Ira’s warding powers were priceless. He didn’t ask for any form of compensation for these services, and didn’t support the rebellion in any other fashion. Both he and the thicket leaders felt it was prudent for him to do this one wildly valuable thing for them, and nothing else. Any more noise would have painted a target on his back, and made it that much harder for them all to remain secret and hidden. It was of absolute importance that he remain a free man, so he could continue to help him in his best way. Once the phallocracy was toppled, the truth of Ira’s involvement with the thicket came out to the public. He suddenly had a whole bunch of enemies who now understood why the former government never made any headway in putting the rebels down. Unfortunately for them, it wasn’t like they had any means of retaliating. His wards protected his person at all times, so he perpetually walked around with an impenetrable shield. He was only ever rewarded for his noble actions, by people grateful for his bravery in a world that did not always appreciate it. He continued to work as a ward creator, though he could now be much more open about it. His power increased as well, as did the powers of many others, like it was the existence of the corrupt government itself that was keeping them down. He never used his gifts to help criminals, or anyone with known backwards ideas about how the planet should be run. He provided safety and security to a lot of people on Durus, and he did it for next to nothing. They even named a new wildlife reserve after him, located in an area once overwhelmed by thicket. Fittingly, they simply called it Ira Park.

Microstory 997: Flexibility

< > Table of Contents

When I was a child, I had certain routines that I would perform in order to get things done. I would have  a routine for getting up in the morning, and getting ready for school. I would have a routine for learning in school, one for coming home, and one for getting ready for bed. As I grew up, my routines changed, because they had to. I had different classes, with teachers who had different expectations, and I had a different schedule. I didn’t much think about how much my life was changing over the years, because it happened gradually. My family moved around a lot, and even when we were in the same house, the school district kept rezoning, so I was still moving all over the place. Thank God for all of that, because I would be an absolute mess without this training. One thing that autistic people like me often struggle with is change. We don’t like someone introducing a complication in our routines, because we haven’t had proper time to prepare for them. They must be tested, for efficiency and comfort. You can’t just spring something new on us and expect things to go smoothly. Routines are designed to be effortless, so they can alleviate stress, and allow us to focus on what’s important. If you force us to rethink something, that stress goes back up, because now we’re focusing energy on something we thought was fine as is. I’m not saying other people don’t have stress, but we have more, because the smallest thing can feel incredibly overwhelming. Though I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, I’m ultimately glad I wasn’t diagnosed until I was an adult, because if my family had fully understood what I was going through, they would have worked hard at protecting me. They would have walked on eggshells, and tailored my environment, and that is not what I really needed, even if I would have thought so back then. It was difficult for them, dealing with me, having to figure out how to communicate with me so that I wouldn’t freak out about something they perceived to be trivial. It was difficult for me too, as it took years to learn things most people puzzle out on their own, and flexibility was never my strong suit. It was simple to me; when you say we’re leaving for church at 9:30, then I will be ready at 9:30; not 9:25. As hard as it was for us, though, I think it made us stronger people. At least, I know that’s what it did for me.

One of my biggest challenges was acknowledging the fact that no one ever says what they mean. Ever. It’s always attached to a lie, or an embellishment, or an ambiguity, or imprecision. Sometimes it’s on purpose, and sometimes it’s accidental, but nothing in this world is at face value, except for playing cards. I think I’ve brought this up, but I’m still coming across articles about very successful people who are trying to reveal the secret to their success. Do this before bed, and sleep this long, and sing your to-do list underwater, and write yourself a million dollar check, then burn it in effigy. Setting aside the fact that no secret trick can work for everybody, or even that many other people, the problem with the premise is that it’s all about meticulousness. You have to measure out your life perfectly, and do it in the same way across some arbitrary temporal pattern. So many people tell me I should write in the same place, at the same time, under the same conditions, every single day, like I’m on birth control, or something. That’s the exact opposite of what you should do. The real trick is flexibility. The freedom to accept where you are, and what you have at the moment, is so much less stressful than requiring your environment to be just so. I still have loads of stress, but I would have so much more if I didn’t train myself quite deliberately to tolerate and appreciate the inconveniences; both big and small. People spend a lot of money on making their lives easier, which is fine, to an extent. Likewise, to an extent, it’s a lot cheaper to simply adapt yourself to the complexity. When it stops bothering you that the barista keeps giving you two sugars, instead of one, you can move on with your life, and just drink a sweeter coffee in the morning. I am not the poster child for flexibility, but I am a huge proponent of it, because I know the problems that rigidity causes, better than most. Change is good. Complications are good. The biggest favor you can do for yourself is to take every problem as an opportunity to learn rather than trying to find a workaround that really just adds more work anyway.

Microstory 964: Women

< > Table of Contents

I was born a feminist, and cannot at all relate to people who aren’t. It’s unclear how much of my position on the matter is because of my parents, and other strong women in my life, and how much is due to my autism, but one thing that’s clear is that it’s not just one or the other. I know a lot of people say that they’re “colorblind” even though that’s not entirely accurate. We judge the people around us on the regular, and not all of that is bad. Judgment is an important evolutionary trait that is often vital to our survival, even today. A caveman that welcomed without question any rando who walked into his cave was at risk of being bonked in the head by a club. Judgment allows us to gauge how people might receive us, and how to interact with them the best way possible; so that it’s safest for everyone. The problem comes when we start making blanket statements about say, how black people generally act, or how women think. Fortunately, my autism has been known to prevent me from making those unhealthy judgments, because it’s difficult for me to adjust my behavior to social cues as a whole. I’m pretty good at sensing other people’s emotions, but not so good at anticipating their needs. So basically, I know what you’re feeling, but I don’t know how to help you. Not once have I encountered a woman, and thought, “there’s something—beyond biology—about her that’s different than me. She would do better doing such-and-such work, whereas I’m better at this other work.” When I meet someone, I simultaneously assume they know everything, and nothing. It sounds contradictory, but I believe it’s important to acknowledge from the beginning that you don’t know what this person has been through, or how they see the world. I was recently talking about mansplaining with my sister, and struggling to understand the difference between that, and just explaining things in an appropriate way. As a man, am I simply never allowed to be an authority on a subject if a woman is around? But that’s not really the point. Mansplaining occurs when a man presumes the woman he’s talking to doesn’t already know whatever it is they’re discussing, and/or condescends to her in a sexist manner. It would be great if feminism didn’t have to exist, but it does, because women have been treated as second-class citizens for thousands of years, and when I try to fathom the timeline, it’s obvious that progress has been sluggish, and we still have far to go. So the best way to avoid mansplaining to a woman is to open a dialog of equals, which is exactly the best way to engage with others anyway, so it works out. I love women, and not because they’re pretty, or because of their body parts. I love women because they kick ass. I’m so glad that we have some really good feminist movements going on right now, and that fiction is currently tackling the issues at a higher intensity than ever before. The Bold Type, the Charmed reboot, and well...pretty much anything on The CW are some of my favorite programs, because they’ve had enough of the patriarchal bullshit. So have I, and if you have too, then come these next two elections, #votethemout.

Microstory 923: Manchester Orchestra and Others

< > Table of Contents

When I was in eighth grade, I found one of my sister’s CDs, and decided it to play it. It was a band called The Offspring, and they immediately became my favorite. Not long after, my birthday came up, and I was surprised by two tickets for a concert, which included Fenix TX, and Sum 41 as openers. I didn’t like them, because they were taking up time I felt I should have used to hear the music I came for. I later warmed up to Sum 41, but I never listened to that other one. As you might have ascertained, this was my first rock concert. My father went with me, presumably to protect me, which I need. I was a tiny little thing with undiagnosed autism, and I don’t think I would have been able to handle the mosh pit. And I think that because I only lasted long enough to hear one song from The Offspring before I couldn’t take any more of the jostling. The bouncer—who was really cool, and gave me a bottle of water, and a genuine Offspring guitar pick—lifted us both over the barrier, and let us walk around to the back to finish the show. I loved it, though I wish I had learned more the songs. I’m not sure in what capacity Napster existed back then, but we almost certainly didn’t have it yet. Acquiring music was a difficult process that required thought. And money. Flash forward six or seven years, and The Offspring are toppled as my favorite in an upset by contender Muse. They only lasted for a few years before a stray tweet led me to this Vancouver-based group called Mother Mother. I even spent about $800 on a trip to a film festival in the middle of nowhere Ontario to see them live. I wasn’t meant to spend that much, but the cheaper rental car company required a credit card, which I did not have, because I only ever buy things when I have the money for it in my account. Seriously, I once owned a car, and even though I made payments, I could have technically bought the whole thing in cash. Anyway, jump once more to 2017 when my radio station introduces me to Manchester Orchestra, which changed my favorite band list for a third time. I guess liking bands with the letters “M” and “O” is just my M.O. I do like lots other music, too. Here’s a quick list (in no particular order): Imagine Dragons, ABBA, Eminem, Vanessa Hudgens, AWOLNATION, Carla Sendino, Alt-J, Caroline Rose (even her country-rock album), Joywave, Selena Gomez, Misterwives, Brie Larson, Dredg, and almost any disco. My tastes are pretty eclectic, and I still love all my former favorites. I wonder whether there will be a fifth favorite, and what that is.

Microstory 921: Hand Sanitizer

< > Table of Contents

I discussed hand sanitizer in the Stepwisdom entry about Cleanliness in general; wherein I recount my first experience with the stuff as being God-adjacent. For someone like me, cleanliness is extremely important. I’m not a germaphobe, mind you. I get sick all the time, and it has been this way my whole life. I’m not afraid of being infected by something, and I’m about 83% that, if the zombie virus ever plagued this world, I would be immune to it. What I have a problem with is cross-contamination. My OCD is what gives me the need to control the nature of my environment, but it’s my autism that dictates what how that environment should ideally be. There’s this trope you can find on the web called Blessed With Suck. Basically, a character will be burdened with some supernatural ability that is mundane, pointless, or downright inconvenient. There are a lot of superpowers that I occasionally believe myself to possess, like being able to see the future, or sensing other people’s emotions. The one power that I actually do have, all the time, is the ability to feel the ick around me. If you were to clean a table thoroughly, I would be able to touch that table, and tell that it’s happened. No big deal, right? Anyone can intuit the cleanliness of an object. Now imagine you ran your palm along the tabletop. Your hand isn’t particularly dirty; you weren’t picking your nose, or chalking up to climb a mountain. It was just your hand. Well, I can tell that too. I won’t know exactly what happened, but I’ll be able to tell that something contaminated that surface, and it’ll bother me. I once worked with this girl in a room where all the tables were pushed together, and we sat around it. She would put her feet up on her section, and—I dunno, doodle “Mrs. Donald Trump” in a notebook, I guess. When it was lunch time, she would go grab her food, and place her fork on that table...right where her shoes were. Then she would use that fork to pick up food, and put it all in her mouth. She was putting dirt in her mouth, along with animal feces, and God knows what else she’d walked through. Because she was a crazy person. People think I’m weird for walking around with hand sanitizer, but it makes me feel safe, and it makes it a lot more difficult for me to put poop in my mouth. Can you honestly say the same?

Microstory 916: Free Hugs

< > Table of Contents

Anyone who’s ever met me probably assumes that I don’t like to be touched. My diagnosis as autistic surely only reinforces this belief, since sensory issues are often associated with the condition. The reality is that I appreciate human contact. Yes, I will admit that I’ve never much liked kissing. If you take a step back, and try to look at the whole concept from an alien’s point of view, it’s a pretty bizarre thing that we do. Even stranger is that we freely do it in public, as the only socially acceptable form of incontrovertible sexual behavior. Hugs, on the other hand, carry no necessarily sexual intentions or sentiments. Any two or more people are capable of hugging each other without it being an expression of anything beyond friendship, no homo. That’s not to say that there isn’t such thing as an inappropriate hug. All parties involved must consent, but it’s also possible to hug a child without it being a problem. Or rather it’s possible for a child to hug an adult without causing problems. Every year, between the first of December, and Christmas, I have this tradition of watching the movie Love Actually. The pattern began as an accident. Of course, it plays during Christmastime, and I happened to just keep seeing it, but then I started watching it with purpose. The film is bookended with scenes of people hugging each other at an airport. “Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.” I think we don’t do enough hugging in this world. Just watch any movie where two lovers come together after some harrowing series of events. They always start making out, even if buildings are exploding around them, or the antagonist is literally chasing after them, and they gotta go. We’ve been taught to value romantic relationships over comradery; sex over loyalty. Well, I’ve never really gotten a chance to incorporate this into my stories, so I’ll just tell you that there is a world where things are different. Shaking hands is reserved almost exclusively for executing business deals. When two people who don’t dislike each other greet each other, they hug, and it doesn’t seem odd to them. I’m not suggesting we could ever make our world like that one, but maybe we could start taking steps in the right direction, because the best hugs are free.

Microstory 896: No Small Parts

< > Table of Contents

Our only saving grace when the aliens came to take over our planet was that they severely underestimated our will to fight back. They didn’t send enough ships at first, and while they were able to enslave a good chunk of the population, they left the rest of us enough time to learn their ways, and come up with countermeasures. What we discovered was that once an individual was being controlled by one of the aliens, their minds could never be saved. Even if you killed the alien that was controlling them, they would just continue doing whatever their last order was; whether that meant walking in one direction without stopping, or shooting at other humans. We were forced to start killing our own kind, and I tell you, I do not envy the people responsible for that front. A team of brilliant scientists managed to capture some of the invaders, along with the humans they had enthralled. They spent months studying the permanent neural link between them, and could find no way of severing that connection. Then one woman showed us the way, but not because she somehow knew how to stop the aliens, but because was already a visionary before this all began. She was what one would call a transhumanist. She believed that man should shed his biological limitations, and “upgrade” to more advanced systems. While her achievements were remarkable, before the war started, they were also illegal in most jurisdictions. She had to conduct her experiments in secret, using a handful of extremely willing volunteers, as well as herself as guinea pigs. She realized that she and her people were incapable of being influenced by the alien mind control, if only to some degree. Simple math proved that the higher the number of upgrades one possessed, the easier it was for them to resist the control. That was our solution, but that doesn’t mean it would be easy, or quick.

Humans evolved to be what we are today due to a series of happy accidents, and genetic traits that mostly only passed down because they just happened to support the species’ ability to survive. All of our organs function automatically, so that we don’t have to concentrate on each process all the time. We feel pain to alert the brain that something is wrong. We form clots to patch wounds. We are simply not designed for modern medicine, which is why every major biomedical breakthrough has come after years of finding ways to trick the body into accepting aid. Just as it’s possible to transplant certain organs, under certain conditions, from one individual to the next, it’s possible to install nonbiological components. But this requires a lot of time, because the body always needs to adjust to the foreign object. It’s primed to reject it; because it could be a threat to the body’s survival, which means people can’t be upgraded all at once. The scientists began the process of upgrading as many people as they could, as fast as they could, but it was proving to not be enough. Finally I had to come out of the shadows. You see, transhumanists weren’t the only ones immune to alien control. Since I only had a sample size of myself, I had to guess, but I suspected the reason aliens couldn’t break my mind was because that mind is not what they expected. When I was in college, I was diagnosed with autism, which is a medical condition every single person I met told me was a disadvantage; something that we must try to correct. It took me a long time to get over the stigma, and to realize that I was not diseased; I was just different. Even before all this happened, if I could have flipped a switch, and stopped being autistic, I wouldn’t have, because it’s a part of me, and it’s made me the kind of person I am today. And the kind of person I am is one with the natural inclination to help and protect people. I didn’t need to replace my body with the upgrades, so I knew it was my obligation defend those who did need that. My latest assignment is to protect the princess, and she is proving to be a handful, but I’m honored to do it, because we have to win this war. We just have to.

Microstory 879: Eyes Glued

< > Table of Contents

Most people would say that I have superpowers, but a lot of the things I can do are uncontrollable, and I would say that you are the ones with powers. Your bodies have been refined over time by evolution, with each passing generation developing better and better traits to help them survive in the world. When your skin is cut, tiny little extensions of you race to the wound, and seal it up. When you’re dehydrated, you become thirsty; tired when you need sleep, itchy when something around you is not quite right. My kind, on the other hand—if I’m even of a kind at all—is stuck doing all those kinds of things manually. I use external instruments to measure my body, so I can stay alert to what it needs me to do, and that is always a lot of work. I do not experience thirst, but I still require water to transport nutrients, and lubricate joints. Sure, I can lose a limb, and put it back on later, but I also can’t heal myself, so if I don’t fix it quick, I’ll bleed out. I don’t know what I am, or where I came from. I woke up one day in the middle of the woods, and have lived years knowing nothing about myself. I often return to that spot for answers, but have found none, so I mostly just try to live my best life possible. The scientists who ended up lucky enough to respond to the claims of my existence can’t explain me either. Some wanted to call me Data, because I apparently act like a particular character in a TV show that I now feel compelled to avoid, on principle. Others wanted to name me Frankenstein, because my physical attributes most closely resemble a monster created through spare parts. But I was not born of amalgamation, and I was not built to specification, but rather modeled upon my creator’s vague memory of a generic human being, or so it would seem, because they didn’t do a great job. I believe I was designed as a prototype. I figure they left to die in the wild while my creator moved on a better version, but this is nothing more than speculation, because I really don’t much care who they are, or what they were hoping to gain.

I was found by a mother and daughter on a camping trip. They knew someone who knew someone working in the field of robotics. Of course, I am no android, but her knowledge has not been unhelpful in understanding how to deal with me. I suppose if I had to label my family, I would call her my mother. She cared for me like a mother would, and protected me from those who would exploit me for their own ends. I was fortunate to have her, as well as her colleagues, for I cannot say I would have turned out so well-adjusted if not for them. As unbelievable as it may seem, I lead a fairly normal life. I have a decent job where only a select few know that I do not consider myself human. The rest assume I have autism, and most of those treat me with kindness because of, in spite of, or unrelated to, that assumption. I do normal things, like set off fireworks, and cuddle with puppies. When I eat, I’m eating regular food, and just like everybody else, I have to make sure it’s not too much. My stomach might rupture if I fail in this, so that’s different, but still not too far off from how it is for you. Right now I’m at the beach for the first time, and I’m still not sure I like it. My mother thinks I’m capable of incurring first degree burns, and insists I spread sunblock on my skin. It’s oily, and gross, and I don’t like it. Plus, there’s sand in my eyes now, which is another advantage you have over me. You’ve evolved tears that can wash foreign particulates from your eyes, but I don’t, so it just won’t come out. I’m going to have to remove them entirely, which I know will be unsettling for the other beach goers, but we can just claim we’re filming a prank show, like that time I lifted a car to retrieve a soccer ball. No one seems to be paying attention, but neither am I. I reach into my mother’s bag, looking for those eye drops she uses for her allergies. Before I realize I’ve grabbed the wrong bottle, it’s too late. My eyeballs have already set into the fast-hardening super glue. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have made sure I didn’t insert them backwards. I can’t see a thing, but please, keeping telling me how great it must feel to swim underwater for two days straight.

Voyage to Saga: The Lost (Part VI)

« < » > Entire Story

Vearden opened his eyes. Above him he saw light filtering through bamboo stalks, and other trees. He could hear lots of jungle sounds; chirping, squawking, and rustling. But the sound that dominated his ears was that of buzzing. A mouse was using his chest as a little table to eat its seeds. It didn’t seem to be bothered by Vearden’s waking up. He took the little guy and placed him in his vest pocket as he was standing up. He was wearing a vest now. The buzzing was coming from bees. He couldn’t see a nest anywhere around, or really any particularly concentration of the bees. They were just all over the place; more than he had ever seen before. Fortunately, like the mouse, they weren’t bothered by his presence, so he just started walking in a random direction.

The buzzing eventually subsided a little, and were replaced by the sounds of people. He continued to walk towards it, and ended up in some kind of encampment. A few dozen people were going about their day. Some were building shelters, others fire. Some were sorting through luggage on the beach, while others were just resting. A man came in from his flank carrying a bundle of sticks. “Hey, excuse me...” Vearden tried to say, but the man just ignored him. He wasn’t being rude, it was more like he literally couldn’t even see Vearden. Likely no one could, if that were the case. This theory required further testing.

Vearden continued to walk through the camp, quickly seeing the wreckage of a plane about a football field away. It wasn’t smoking, or anything, so it had obviously crashed some time ago. The survivors had already gotten over the shock of it, and were just trying to figure out what to do next. He tried interacting with a number of people, but none of them could see him. He even took someone by the arm. She jumped and pulled herself away, trying to figure out what had taken hold of her, but was unable to find anything. So it wasn’t just that Vearden was in some kind of other dimension, he was invisible. He could use that to communicate with people, or he could protect them emotionally, and avoid touching anything. “All right, Shepherd!” he called out to the aether, confident that no one but her would be able to hear him. “What are you having me do here?”

He looked around, searching for The Shepherd, but she wasn’t there. It was worth a shot, though, right? Then he saw it. The Shepherd never showed herself, but someone else did. A young woman was staring right at him. It was either a coincidence, or an exception. She looked around as well, possibly noticing that the others could not see what she could. She said something to who could have been her older sister. The other woman nodded and went back to threading shoelaces. The younger woman waved Vearden towards her before walking into the woods. He followed her.

Once they were far enough away from camp to be heard, she stopped and turned to him. “Why can the others not see or hear you?”

“I’m not certain,” Vearden answered.

“Were you on the plane?”

“I was not.”

“So there are others here.”

“There is at least me. I assume we are on an island.”

“We wouldn’t have set up camp if we could have walked to civilization.”

“Quite.”

“Where did you come from?”

In science fiction and fantasy stories, there’s often this concept of the “underworld”. Most people are just living in the regular world. They have nine-to-five jobs, they drink beer, and they watch trash TV. But then there’s all this other stuff going on that they have no idea exists. We could be talking vampires, aliens, people who can read minds, demons, whatever. It just has to be something so realistically hidden from the rest of the world that it’s technically possible it’s actually real for the audience, but they just don’t know it. The beginning of one such of these stories usually involves one or more characters stumbling upon the truth, and starting their adventure. While they’re at it, they’re charged with protecting their loved ones, the general population, and possibly the secret people. No one who doesn’t already know this truth can know, for it will have terrible consequences. Or maybe that’s just a load of horseshit, and these secret underworlds aren’t giving humans enough credit. Maybe they can handle the truth. Maybe this woman can too. “I’m from a parallel universe,” he said truthfully.

She nodded, not in surprise, but with caution. “Do you mean an alternate reality, or another timeline?”

“I do not.”

“How did you get here?”

“Someone very powerful can cross into other worlds, and she sent me here to help with something. If I succeed, I might get my friend back.”

“So you want me to help you help us?”

“That’s how it’s been going for me so far. Is there anything you need?”

“Besides getting rescued?”

“Besides that,” Vearden confirmed.

“Hmm...” she said, thinking. “Well, Stuart is teaching us how to hunt. Do you speak Japanese?”

“No, sorry.”

“Oh, too bad. Kazuo seems to have a lot to say, but we don’t know what.”

“I know more of those people’s names than yours.”

“I’m Monica.”

“Hi, Monica, I’m Vearden Haywood. Why do you think you can see me?”

She shrugged. “I’ve always been able to see things others can’t. It’s just never been quite so literal.”

Another young woman, maybe just a hair older than Monica came through the brush. “Monica, who are you talking to?”

“I see dead people,” Monica whispered, jokingly.

“You’re not well, are you?”

“I’m autistic.”

The other woman didn’t know what that meant.

“It means I’m fine, Danielle. I am not the way I ought to be...I’m just the way I got to be,” Monica answered with a song lyric that Vearden recognized from his own universe, which was strange. She turned back to Vearden. “Do that thing again you did with the arm.”

“What?” Danielle asked.

“No,” Vearden said.

“Come on, this is my universe, you have to do what I say.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just do it!”

“Fine.” Vearden gently placed his hand on Danielle’s shoulder.

She freaked out and stepped back.

“Told you!” Monica cried in delight.

“I should not have done that,” Vearden said out of immense regret.

Monica shrugged again. “She’ll be all right, she’s rich.”

Danielle started backing away more, like she had come across a snake.

“Isn’t that right?”

Danielle kept going.

“I see you, Danielle! I know who you are! I know what you did! I can see into people’s souls!”

Danielle turned and ran off.

That was weird. “Why did you do that?” Vearden asked.

Monica was still looking towards where Danielle had been. “She knows why. And deep down in her heart, she knows what she must do now. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, I’m lost.”

“Yeah, I’m not anymore,” she said with relief. “I see now why you’re here, especially since you’re obviously about to leave.”

“How do you figure?”

“Is that your bed over there?” She gestured behind him.

His bed from the hotel suite was just sitting in the middle of the woods. “It is, yes.”

“Well...unless your boss wants us to have sex, I think it’s probably just your exit.”

“I guess so.”

“It was nice meeting you, Vearden.”

“You too, Monica.” He turned away and muttered under his breath, “I think.”

“I heard that,” she said flippantly.

He sort of plopped himself onto the bed and started massaging his eyes. When he reopened them, he found the Shepherd lying next to him. “What was the point of that one?”

“Danielle has a lot of work ahead of her. In order for her to get it done, and get it done right, she needs to be honest with herself. Her lies are holding her back, making her sick.”

“And Monica?” Vearden asked.

“She plays her part too.”

He knew he wasn’t going to get any details, which was...whatever. He moved on, “what now?”

“You can have one night’s worth of sleep.” She stopped, and paced. She finally spoke again after a few minutes, “nah, you’ll get more than that. This next one is going to be weird. I mean, you see magic every day, because you don’t live in linear time. The next one is going to be different, though. You won’t be able to explain this magic away, not with the toolkit you have now. It’ll also be the most...menacing.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“No, but you’ll be okay. Just, be sure not to get...” she paused for dramatic effect. “...left behind.”

« < » > Entire Story