I've got a piece here. It's 1540 words long, so it's a little lengthier than what one usually seems to find here, but it's not a tome.
I considered posting it in the Writer's Guild thread, where I've had workable feedback given to me before, but decided to place it in the more active thread instead. Namely, this one.
I'll share my thoughts and further details on it (and the opinions of one or two others I've given this piece, should you wish) after I've heard a few opinions; I hope you don't mind.
“Clinic.”
The words were laminated onto the face of the frosted glass above a logo of a green cross. There was no frame to be seen and no handles – instead, the glass simply split down the middle and slid invisibly into the walls as he approached. Bright white light washed out in sparkling ripples and streams, flowing like warm water around his face and dissipating into the dark streets behind him. Taking his first halting steps into the waiting room, his footsteps echoed against the marble, polished to a mirror sheen; with nothing to fill the air but the clock’s soft ticking and the gentle hum of the ceiling fluorescents, they seemed deafening.
He scanned his appointment into the mechanical receptionist and moved toward the recliners – the place was largely empty now, this late in the day. Save for perhaps one or two people who minded their own business, nothing remained of the patients but their trash and forgotten belongings. It was better this way, so that there wasn’t anyone around. He felt less odd.
It went on quite a bit more now, of course, so there were others like him, but there was still something about having people around – lots of people – to see him do it. It still felt strange to go to a clinic when you didn’t need it, when by any account you’d be considered fine. Healthy, even.
He looked at his ticket, briefly, before putting it back into his pocket. Twenty minutes. Having to wait that long was inconvenient, but understandable, considering the hour; there weren’t many to staff this place at night.
He sat down on a large white sofa, leaning into the soft padding and surveying the collection of papers laid out on the chromed table before him. New paints, they said, for your car; five tested. He picked a magazine up, leafed through its contents, skimming over the text. A few newspapers left behind – last week’s, he saw with a glance. A few years ago, they had a few novels in the shelves as people waited for their appointments. Now, there were magazines on the table and toys on the shelves; they needed something to entertain their new customers and someplace to put it, and there wasn’t enough time for books anymore. But the magazines were already getting old, and soon they’d be gone – why read those when you can have everything through your smartphone, a pocket newsstand, a library, an arcade and a window to the world all in one? There wasn’t enough time for magazines to be published and read before the news got old or could be found elsewhere.
He sighed, and eyed the silver-faced clock. The visit tonight would be expensive, but was necessary.
After all, his colleagues were doing similar things, and he needed a leg up – or a fair chance, at the very least. They were, among other things, able to remember perfectly, and go about with only an hour or two of sleep a day, filling the rest with work, appointments and meetings. He worked late every night, but crashed down the performance charts. For their tin anniversary, he was in Modern Computing Design courses; in return, he got ousted from the application development projects he led. The kids’ treehouse, of course, had to be left for another time. Always next week, next month, next summer, I’ll get it done when I can, when my schedule clears up, sorry honey, Dad’s busy. His children took it as a sign of increasing hubris and, displeased, tried multiple times to “bring him down a notch”.
He often slept in his office to work; the others simply worked. When he had reached the bottom, he was told that he had to either shape up – or get out. He was only human, he told them – humans can make mistakes. He was out of focus the past few months from outside stress; he’d shape up, no problem. Just need a second chance, he had said.
He was only human, after all.
But the others, something more.
So he had the implant done, like them, but life didn’t get better – he had the job, but now, his mind was wedded to pentaphedrine, and the clinics took his raises for it.
A metallic voice rang out through the grilles on the wall. “Your appointment is ready, Mr Bailey. Please proceed to Room 15”. Another glass wall split to show the corridor.
The corridor, lined with yet more glass panes for walls, was covered by darkness and frost. Blue lights, blinking idly, were just visible through the matte glass. Hulking machines, black, sharp things made for bone and sinew, hummed and quaked the walls in their sleep. A few silhouettes were tending the machines beyond the glass, loading bags of parts and taking the finest cuts, dosing anaesthetic. His technician was preparing the materials in the room, the cerulean work lights already on. He came in, and sat on the edge of the operating bed.
“Welcome back. What will it be today, Mr Bailey?” The technician smiled warmly, though he had never seen him before. His file was in the computer regardless, genetic records and all, and with this, any technician in the building knew him as well as his mother. Better than his mother.
“I’ll need to top up my pentaphedrine subscription again. The last implant hasn’t stopped rejecting yet, and it’s making me ill.”
“Oh. But it works, right?”
“Yes, it does. As I said, though, it’s making me ill.”
The technician jotted down something on his pad, and handed the ripped-out piece of paper to him. “Here. You can get it at the counter. Same as always. Is that all?”
He opened his mouth to say yes, but hesitated.
The treehouse...
Well, he did want to finish it, didn’t he?
“Actually...” His mouth formed the words, but no breath came out. He struggled for air, but could muster none. A hoarse croak.
Another implant would mean another two years without savings – perhaps even more. Didn’t they still have a year’s payments to make for his blue box? Right, yes, they still had so many payments left on it. Was it worth it? Yes, but there might not be enough money left. His fingers swam slowly toward the back of his neck, gently searching in unison for its sunken metallic corners and – yes, the port. They shoaled around the jagged ring. They nudged the fine grille, and the cold electrodes, dormant for now. Then, a click – at the edge of audibility, a sound not heard but felt in the soft earth of his skull. Searing pain. Something warm down his neck, trickling in thin rivulets down his back. The school dispersed, startled.
“Don’t touch it! If it’s rejecting, leave it alone.”
“Right,” a weak cough. He dabbed at the fresh wound.
The implant would pay for itself in the long run, wouldn’t it? Maybe they could take out a loan for a while, if they had to. A few more sacrifices made now would mean a better life later on. He’d have more time to do other things.
He’d have a leg up on the others.
“Actually, uh,” a deep breath, a thought about the dive ahead. “There is something I’d like to add on.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I’d like to have an ocular done.” Another deep breath. A long gaze into the abyssal, obsidian waters. “The best you have.” He leaped in.
“No problem-“ the technician opened a cupboard and took out a package.
“Will it take very long? And, wait, what’s the chance of rejection? Complications? Disability?” A slap of ice-cold water on his face, up his nose, down his mouth. Darkness in the depths. Cold sweat soaked into his shirt. Damn! He should’ve given it more thought! His hands were wet. He shook with trepidation.
“No, not long. Don’t worry about that. Just lie back on the bed. I’ll do the rest.”
He leaned back, and rested his head against the pillow – the bed was cold, and rubbery. Four pairs of multifaceted eyes, a dim green-blue watery glass held behind charcoal-grey bars stained rust-red, stared dully at him from above, hanging from a web of steel chains and rivets in the ceiling. Its thin legs, eight pairs, cast iron smeared with slick black grease, bladed or clawed, hung limp around him.
The mechanic unboxed and loaded the cartridge-mounted prosthetic into the beast’s abdomen, and flicked a switch recessed into the wall. It flared to life, examining the new subject below it. Its limbs moved sleepily as if it were waking, and claws snapped in anticipation.
“Won’t take long. Just lie back.” The technician flipped another switch.
“W-“
Something flashed behind those glassy neon eyes. Its legs twitched farther and danced faster, almost frantic, frenzied, the whole machine swung back and forth on its steel dragline with a horrible creak and squeal of metal against metal – and all the while, the penetrating grind of cogs and gears in its great heaving chest echoed in his ears.
A leg thrust into his neck.
He felt his veins scream and his eyes pop as the tranquiliser flooded into his bloodstream in a great wave, darkening his vision and dulling his senses.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 313071 times)