The Midnight Spike - Death of the Internet - Short Fiction

This one might seem silly, but I've always thought that the Internet has all the makings of the perfect social experiment on a Global Scale. It impacts every single person in one way or another, and it has guided technological advancement ever since its first inception. I'm just waiting for someone to pull the plug and see what happens. Of course, that hasn't happened yet. But what if it did?

Whenever I think about science fiction, I realize that more often than not, some version of the Internet is always there.  I've always wondered what it would be like if that weren't the case, and what could possibly get rid of something as massively ingrained in our society as the Internet. In light of that, I got to thinking and this thought popped into my head:

Writing Prompt:

The Internet is down, and it's not coming back.

Here's everything that I cam up with so far.  I like it as a short story, but it might make for more of a novella or something similar.  I'd love to hear what you think! Just remember: this is an EXTREMELY rough first pass!

Side Note: I also kind of stole a fictional place from an existing work.  Most likely going to change that, because it is rude and ill-tempered behavior, but it fit so perfectly with what was in my head! Let me know if you catch it.

Short Fiction/Science Fiction

TITLE: The Midnight Spike - Death of the Internet

It started with the Internet. 

We all hailed the connected 'net' as the great wonder of our time.  I mean, sure, there were a lot of things that came afterward that impacted things in a much more immediately profound way, but most of those innovations arose from the foundation that was the Internet. 

Just think about it - we jumped from a world where phone calls and the local postal service were the only real ways to communicate to each other on a rapid basis.  If you wanted to collaborate with someone on an idea or innovation, those were your best options outside of hopping in a vehicle and meeting up somewhere with a lot of coffee and enough chalk/whiteboard space to get everything down. 

The internet brought us all together - it connected machines first, tying up phone lines for instant messaging and social networking - simultaneously distancing us from our fellows and bringing us closer together on the digital side.  It was a sort of revolution: the revolution of information. 

For the first time, ideas could be shared and discussed freely without physical restrictions inhibiting access to resources, colleagues, etc.  Of course, not everything could be done with the initial version of the Internet, but it was a blazing spark that lit the powder keg of the digital age. 

Everyone worked towards refining and shaping the evolution of the net.  Scientists, social engineers, politicians - everyone was online, and everyone wanted to see where it would go.  We brought cellular telephones to everyone, passed information and Internet connection through nothingness, cutting wires and necessary connections rapidly.  All the while burying our faces further and further into the digital ocean of information and connection.

Not all intentions were benign.  All of this interconnectedness drew the darkness in many like a shark to the scent of blood.  More information was being stored online, which meant more information could be taken by anyone who had the skills.  The age of cyber warfare had begun - in the backroom of an office by an employee who knew he could beat the system. 

That's how it all went to shit.

A North Country Winter - Remembrance, Emotion, and Beauty in Despair

Much as I love writing prompts.  Sometimes the best prompts are the emotions you feel when you least expect it.  I think some of the strongest emotions come from sadness - even joy, in a way, is experienced so viscerally because of the absence of sadness.  Without that sorrow, you never know what true joy is.

At least, that's one way to look at it.

A lot of the times, when I'm doing other things or just sitting around thinking about my friends and family, I'll be struck with a sort of nostalgia that I never thought I would experience.  Always seeking to recall days gone by and feeling a sweeping sadness that I didn't appreciate everything a bit more back then.

One such time struck me a while back when I was thinking about home.  Thinking about all the things I never said and never did, and what kind of man I am today because of where I'm from.  I felt terrible, and I didn't really know why.  Then I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to go home for something terrible, and that nostalgia was met with true sadness and loss.  What would a person do in a situation like that.

That's when I started writing about a fictionalized version of home. 

Short Fiction

TITLE: A North Country Winter

Winters are unique in the north country.  You can see it in the faded, chipped paint on the buildings - battered and broken, yet only a rare few ever left to rot.  You can see it in the trees and the way the skies roil and churn overhead, sounding a familiar warning of the days and nights to come.

But mostly, if you look closely - If you stop for just a moment and suck in a deep breath of that fresh, bitter cold air - you can see it in the people.

I've lived in a few places, spoken to people from a few more, and one thing that I've always noticed is how much a place stands out in the effects that it has on the people who call it home.

Those on the east coast are bred with the ocean on their backs, the bitter cold of the changing seasons, and the refreshing aftermath of another predictable year. The west coast harbingers ride the shockwaves of life with no more than a shrug at the disruption - content with their lot.  Those in between pleasantly at odds with the heat - beaten by the cold, and warmed by the return of the sun.

No matter where you go, if you just talk to someone, listen, and watch, you'll see something of the place they call home.

When others look at me - the fine few who catch my eye and hold the gaze - I think they see the steel of the north country; forged by years of harsh conditions, and tempered by still harsher days. A steel as cold as a fresh northern winter, as sharp as the wit of a poor man's daughter, and as true as the heart of a grieving son.

~~~

I've watched these trees fly past countless times before.  When I close my eyes, I can count the branches, place the different leaves where they belong before the cold sets in-and remember every time I've passed them by.

Today, I don't see the trees. 

Today, I don't count the branches or place the leaves where they belong - I don't even notice their passing. 

Today, I see the buildings, the people, and the skies.  I see a north country storm brewing and I blink away the tears that make this vision shimmer before my eyes. 

The buildings have changed.

They look like shells now - all the color drained from them during the colder months. Pale skeletal guardians on my path towards the end of the line.

There was a time when these buildings resembled the people of this town - they were vibrant, busy, and capable of weathering even the wildest of storms.  They sprung leaks and drafts and all manner of ills, but they stood tall and bright and filled with the determination of their fleshy counterparts.

This town is a small one - they always are.  It's tucked away between farmland and the Canadian border, whistling away under a bright, shiny name: the star of the north.

~~~

I wasn't alive then, but this part of the north country knew wealth, once.  There were factories, I'm told - places of work and businesses to drive money and security and safety into the surrounding area.  There was a theatre for locals and visitors alike - alive with the popular favorites of the time and bringing people together, no matter their class or station. Then time moved on and so did some of the people.  Visitors didn't come as frequently and those who did lingered even less.

And the star of the north was forgotten by many, left to fend for itself.

When I was a boy, the factories were all just shadows and hollow reflections of what they once claimed to be.  To the children, they were monoliths and dungeons and adventures that called out to us - sometimes, we even answered.  For the most part, we listened to the call, scratching at the wanderlust in our bones, yearning for more - and then we kept walking by.

We didn't realize it, but we felt the importance of these monuments, and, as only the young and innocent truly can, we left those legends at peace - content with the passing memory.

We were told, time and time again, to read our books and play with our friends.  To try in school and maybe, if we are lucky, to leave this fading star to see the world that had once decided to pass it by.

We took that advice for granted, as young ones always do.  We misbehaved and caused trouble, and reminded our parents of what they fought so hard to keep alive - the spirit of the north.

It wasn't always obvious, the sacrifices our parents made.  Sleepless nights after days of cleaning houses and businesses, early mornings to prepare us for school, only to leave moments later to make enough for dinner that night.  Instead, we got lost in the heroes of the past - Washington and his cherry tree, Alexander and the Gordian Knot, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men.  I remember it all, because she always wanted me to.

If we close our eyes and look at what has passed, look at what couldn't be seen at the time - we see that those men and women in our books set many an example, but the mothers and fathers and grandparents and brothers and sister and friends that made us who we are today: they were the real heroes.

After all, even if you didn't know them at the time, you never really forget your childhood heroes.

A Shot at a Fantasy Adventure - The First Step Is Always The Hardest

Oftentimes when I write something, it is just because it kind of popped into my head. I know some writers refer to this as the manifestation of 'the muse,' but who knows? What I know is that writing is not something that is 100% structure or 100% creativity - you need to find a balance that works best for you in the moment, and throughout the continuation of a thought that comes and goes with the fleeting nature of a whim. 

I've always wanted to write my own fantasy adventure - I've sat down and started more than one. What I end up getting stuck on is plot; I can draft up characters, give them an initial goal and then lose my train of thought when it comes to the question, "what next?" So instead of planning it all out, when it hit me this time, I just sat down and wrote. This scene is what popped out, and what I've been using as a basis for world-building. Let me know what you think - I always enjoy feedback!

Fantasy Adventure / Scene

TITLE: TBD (First Step to Darkness)

Joran stumbled as the cobblestone path broke into pieces before him. His step hung on a rock - and for a moment he hung, suspended in the air, exhaustion pulling him from his body to watch the scene unfold. Then he fell, sprawled among the stones with cuts and scrapes joining the marauding band of injuries already present on his skin.

From where he lay upon his back - waiting for his breathing to steady - Joran watched the stars in the sky and wondered at their magnificence. Father always told him to be wary of the night, but look toward the heavens in troubling times.

"Son, those are angels in the dark," he would grumble, his voice dragging the words across one another like pebbles underfoot. "They help those who know how to heed them. One day, they'll be all you have left in this world."

He was a god-fearing man, Joran's father. Mostly due to his own evils - but he always believed angels would protect his family when the devil came calling. Even to his last breath, he didn't pray to a god above, but to the angels in the vast reaches of space.

For all the good it did him, it's a wonder Joran even looks to the skies at all anymore.

As close as he was to the village, there were few travelers on the road. Those that passed him by did so with an open sneer - avoiding his gaze and rushing to some unknown destination. His travels had left Joran battered, bloody and ragged from head to toe, and his fall had set his pack loose - tumbling his meager belongings all over the crooked path.

He didn't blame them - people rarely spared travelers a second glance these days. Borders were becoming chokepoints for bandits and 'tithes' for safe-passage, kings were beset with eagerness for glory, land and power - and war was on the horizon. Stopping to help a stranger was to invite disaster - and Joran was left to pick himself up without so much as a helping hand.

But despite the dangers of the road, there were far fewer travelers here than Joran had been led to expect. Inraya was meant to be a bustling village - a hub for weary travelers and merchants alike, its name synonymous with hospitality and solace.

As the sun relented against the horizon, yielding to the coming night, the streetlights remained dark, and the streets sputtered to an eerie, disturbing silence. Joran spared a second glance at the skies, offering up a mental prayer to whatever might be resting in the cosmos above, and rushed towards a sign reading 'The Red Banshee."

Important Milestones - The Sounds of Shattered Glass

Sometimes, you can't take a break from writing without feeling like you will lose everything that has made the piece you are working on what it is.
For me, this happens all the time.  I've rectified that issue to a point by writing down main points of a story that pops into my head - bullets, for the most part, containing my unfiltered thoughts.  Often, many of these do not make the cut - but sometimes a single bullet catches my brain and nudges the muse awake.  Then, with a fire in my veins, I'm off.

This piece was written more as flash fiction, or a possible scene. I didn't want to focus on character development, but rather the idea of moving forward in the story without moving forward in time.  It was an interesting concept that came to me when I wrote down what eventually became my writing prompt for this piece:

The Lasting Memory of Shattered Glass

In all honesty, it seemed beautiful to me. So I thought, why not talk about the violence in certain moments of pure beauty.  Below is what I came up with.  I look forward to hearing what you think!

Flash Fiction / Scene

TITLE: First Kisses Are Important Milestones, Too

Everything about a shattered pane of glass has its own uniqueness buried within.  The subtle, grating noise that emanates as the singular object breaks apart; the fluid, yet almost mechanical intonation that rends the air like a lion's roar; and the quiet, calming trickle of the individual shards as they settle into place.

A violent maelstrom of sound and chaos, ending in one soft, final sigh.

Every time you see a mirror, or a window, or a cup to hold your drink - there is a tug at the back of your mind that wonders at the sound it would make if it erupted in that familiar scene of violence.  Each instance unique in its own minute details, yet they all echo the memory of the first time you heard glass shatter against a more durable force.

When she leaned in and pressed her supple, warm lips to mine, I felt the world shatter around me like an unfathomable crystalline structure - ripping apart my assumptions, my expectations, and my worries - replacing it all with something so unexpectedly beautiful and unique that, for a moment, the world and the universe paled in comparison.

I can still remember, to this day, the automatic reaction from my arms as they rose to embrace her - pulling her in closer, our lips pressing tighter together as the heat of our breath slowly escaped its prison.  We were both young - both amateurs at the arts of love and lust - and yet, we were lost in this single moment, connected by such a pure manifestation of our desire.

Her hair a tickle as my hands wandered, mapping out the valleys and planes of her back and shoulder blades - even as hers explored the forests of my hair in return.  They tread expertly through the foliage, lingering in seemingly familiar places - never faltering, never waning in persistence and desire. Moments ceased to matter, caught as we were in the eye of the storm.  Passion replaced violence, and eternity seemed the only definitive factor of our existence - each of us lost in the embrace of the other. 

Blood rushed through my ears, drowning out the world with sounds of oceans so vast and welcoming that the journey would take a lifetime to complete.  A lifetime that I welcomed, so long as she stood there at the helm, guiding my ship away from port into the vast unknown.

My heart pounded a primal soundtrack to the hurricane through which we passed - struggling to keep time with the urgency of our actions, straining to escape its prison and revel in the heat of this irresistible moment. 

Her lips parted, her tongue seeking mine with vigor and earnest curiosity, and mine reaching out to greet it with welcoming fervor - a response that was lost among the soft escape of her joy. We stood - the axis of our universe - as the world shattered and broke around us, rebuilding to fit the shape of this moment, to encompass it in memory and burn it into our hearts forever.

Reason broke through our revels, and our lips pulled slowly away from each other, eagerly seeking one last touch - as if they would never have the chance again. Breath was released, anxious to fully escape its confinement, and the sounds of the seas faded from my ears. 

I opened my eyes and was caught immediately by the quiet happiness that shone from hers. Opened as we had been, we watched one another as the moment slipped slowly past and our minds burned the experience into place - never to be forgotten, never to be usurped: a regal presence to which the future must face comparison.

Unconsciously we seek to repeat our milestones: with every bite, we compare the taste to our past meals, with every song, we reach towards the shelves of our minds and play the tracks of our favorite sounds. 

Nothing, however, stands apart so much as a first, true kiss.

Except, perhaps, the sounds of breaking glass.

Runaway Faucet - Sometimes, The Mind Does All the Work and the Fingers Struggle to Keep Up

This little piece just kind of hit me one night - I was having trouble sleeping and I actually heard a faucet in the apartment somewhere, dripping repeatedly and monotonously, without stopping. Of course, my attention latched onto it and I couldn't focus on anything else - sleep was out of the question, at the very least.

So I went ahead and fixed the faucet, stopping it from playing more if its rancorous music. Since I couldn't sleep, my mind started to drift, to a kind of dark question:

Writing Prompt:
What if it wasn't water making that sound?

That was my prompt for the introduction piece below.  I would be interested to turning it into a story, but we'll see.  Of course, I'm open to thoughts and interpretations here from anyone who feels like sharing - thought you might have to register on Google to leave a comment.

Short Fiction

TITLE: TBD (Runaway Faucet is a Placeholder)

Night is a special time for me. For everyone, really. The rest of the world just kind of melts away with the sun, becoming lost in the velvet of the encroaching shadows. I like the night, it's peaceful.

I've been up for far too long, now. I can feel sleep stealing over me like a vaguely oppressive force weighing down on my eyelids. I blink for a second, and the clock shows minutes have passed. There is a bitter struggle between my eyes and my eyelids - the mind is willing, but the body is not.

Using the pale light of the fading television, I guide myself into the bedroom. I'm vaguely aware of the 'no signal' message, but the auto sleep timer should take care of that after a while. It's been on for so long, I'm surprised it hasn't shut off already.

I drift hazily past the bathroom, too weak to bother brushing my teeth before passing out in this dry heat. It doesn't really matter, it's not like there is anyone here to smell my breath anyway. It's kind of nice having a queen size bed all too myself - plenty of room to get lost in on nights like this.

I fumble for my phone in the dark, setting the alarm for seven in the morning. A tiny message tells me that I'll be waking up in four hours - well-rested, I'm sure. Before everything goes black behind the curtain of my eyes, I notice the date - as if I hadn't stared at it enough over the top of empty bottle on the table: May 14th.

The sounds of nature outside disappear immediately - no more birds rustling through the trees, no more wind wreaking havoc on the ground below. The natural static in the air crackles into nothingness and I hear nothing but my breath: in and out, slow and faint against the hazy backdrop of night.

And a steady, rhythmic dripping coming from somewhere else. Somewhere close but too far for my brain to understand.

Drip. 

Water, maybe? It could be a faucet - a rush of silver and blues against white porcelain. Filling for a moment before disappearing without a thought.

          Drip.

It rained recently. Greens and oranges and greys falling together reminding us that spring is here. Pooling along the gutters and fading away - slowly, repeatedly.

Drip.

Her again. Red and crimson and maroon spreading away, trying to escape the room. Reaching the edge and falling slowly to splash on the tiled floor. Her hand outstretched at an unnatural angle, her hair matted with freshly flowing life. When she hit the table, there was a snap before everything came rushing out. Only to be slowly cascading from top to bottom, seeking another place to rest.

He looks at me - like he always does - a finger pressed against his lips. The same ruby colored nightmare clutches an old trophy in one hand, dented to match the divot in her skull. It hits the floor with a rancorous clang as the soft meta bounces off the mosaic tile, but all I can hear is that steady, rhythmic reminder.

          Drip.

*** 

Waking with a jolt is never fun. It gives me a headache every single time it happens. Sitting up quickly, I throw the sheets off of me as I fight the dizziness and the bile inducing vertigo. The phone is on the floor - must have knocked it over when the alarm started going off. It's telling me something I don't want to hear: It's 7:45 AM and I am late for work.

Just another wonderful May morning.

It's Never Too Late for a First Impression

Source: amandaonwriting.tumblr.com

Hello, all.

It's the broken poet again with another (hopefully final) attempt at jumpstarting my personal blog.  I'll keep it short this time - I promise!

While I've always enjoyed sharing my thoughts with people - whether they want to hear them or not - I couldn't bring myself to try and be 'deep' all the time. I don't like faking it or forcing it, and I hate to have anyone who knows me think that is all I am.  So then I got to thinking: what is something that I can't help but do, even when I don't want to? The simple answer, of course, is writing.

From there it was really just a matter of setting things up.

Read, Write, Discuss.

No matter what I do, I'm almost always reaching for my phone at some point to jot down another random idea in my Google Keep notebook.  If you write or just need to take down a lot of notes, Keep is an awesome choice - especially if you have android.  OneNote is pretty good too, along with a few others, but Keep is just so accessible from everything that I use, so it has stuck with me as my go to app when jotting things down.

Thanks to this realization, I thought it would be awesome to use my blog to share some of my written work based on random late-night thoughts or writing prompts that I find online.  Hell, I'll even write stuff based on other people's suggestions, if the topic hits the spot. So that's what I'm going to do here from now on: share with you my unfiltered, unedited works and see what happens.  Not everything - nor, possibly, anything - that gets posted here will be a true gem.  That's an unfortunate truth as a writer: you won't always get it right.  However, I can promise one thing:

Everything I post here is authentically ME.

If I do happen to reference other works, either as prompts or simply as references, I will cite them accordingly and provide links where applicable.  Otherwise, everything I write is mine, and I expect you to respect that and understand that nothing here is allowed to be taken or repurposed without the express consent of yours truly.  I would love for you to share this blog with your friends or associates - anyone who might enjoy reading some random fiction and discussing potential improvements, edits, etc.  But please, respect a writer's right to his own unique work.

I look forward to hearing what you all have to say - and if all remains quiet on the writer's front, well I'll just have to keep trudging along, won't I?

This is me, as I was always meant to be - I hope you enjoy the show!


--Christopher R. Severus Perry