Gservo
13th December 2002, 07:46 PM
by unknown
People who manipulate
turn love into bitterness.
They are like a scourge
for they destroy compassion
and leave only destruction.
The moment my father entered, I knew he had failed the test. Like Mary’s father the previous week. The men usually fail first. The women usually last a little longer. Genetic predisposition, they call it.
We sat in silence around the table. This happens almost everyday to someone, but you never know what it feels like until it hits you.
"They gave me no choice. Renewal tomorrow."
My mother wept silently. She was a brave woman. This was her fourth husband she was going to lose this way. She had already had three renewals. "But," she always assured me, "next time I choose extinction."
Isn’t it strange, the way we cling to life, even if it has long since ceased to be worth living? My grandfather has lived five lives already, and he still keeps coming back for more. Or so rumours tell us. But we’ve got no choice. We cannot choose the natural way of death. Civilization has removed itself so far from nature that it now controls nature.
The other day a young boy came past me and smiled at me. I could swear he had the same glint in his eye as my grandpa. My mother always warned me against these thoughts.
I wept bitterly. I swore at fate which allowed me to be born into a time when man could live forever. I was now about to lose my father. The result of the test was final, some polite scientist told him. He had lost too much productivity to continue in his present form.
He had no choice. He had to take on a new, productive form and leave us forever.
We children are only tolerated as unproductive units to refresh the genes of the species. And even then, our growth is hormonally accelerated to cut down on the unproductive period.
My dad left us during the night, after they had drugged us to sleep, just in case we did something silly. We never saw him again, nor would we recognize him when he walked past us ever again.
My mother did something shocking. A few days after we children were taken away from her to begin our productive period, she did the unthinkable. She set herself aflame and jumped from a building so high that when she hit the ground, she was so damaged that they couldn’t put her together again.
They tried. In their fury, they desperately searched for unscorched DNA particles. In vain. My mom showed them. We are still able to die when we choose to.
I went one night and sprayed on the building of the "Centre for Death Control" an ancient poem from a primitive period when human beings were still allowed to die, ate flesh and made war, and actually had sex to get children. It was one of my favourite poems (even though it was only about an egg):
Humpty Dumpty sat on the Wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
And all the King’s horses
And all the King’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty
Together again.
The graffiti was already gone the next day, and all poetry was subsequently banned. But it was worth it.
My mom and I have shown them. They are not God. Not yet.
Looking at the story
This science fiction story represents a terrible vision of the future. What is this vision?
People who manipulate
turn love into bitterness.
They are like a scourge
for they destroy compassion
and leave only destruction.
The moment my father entered, I knew he had failed the test. Like Mary’s father the previous week. The men usually fail first. The women usually last a little longer. Genetic predisposition, they call it.
We sat in silence around the table. This happens almost everyday to someone, but you never know what it feels like until it hits you.
"They gave me no choice. Renewal tomorrow."
My mother wept silently. She was a brave woman. This was her fourth husband she was going to lose this way. She had already had three renewals. "But," she always assured me, "next time I choose extinction."
Isn’t it strange, the way we cling to life, even if it has long since ceased to be worth living? My grandfather has lived five lives already, and he still keeps coming back for more. Or so rumours tell us. But we’ve got no choice. We cannot choose the natural way of death. Civilization has removed itself so far from nature that it now controls nature.
The other day a young boy came past me and smiled at me. I could swear he had the same glint in his eye as my grandpa. My mother always warned me against these thoughts.
I wept bitterly. I swore at fate which allowed me to be born into a time when man could live forever. I was now about to lose my father. The result of the test was final, some polite scientist told him. He had lost too much productivity to continue in his present form.
He had no choice. He had to take on a new, productive form and leave us forever.
We children are only tolerated as unproductive units to refresh the genes of the species. And even then, our growth is hormonally accelerated to cut down on the unproductive period.
My dad left us during the night, after they had drugged us to sleep, just in case we did something silly. We never saw him again, nor would we recognize him when he walked past us ever again.
My mother did something shocking. A few days after we children were taken away from her to begin our productive period, she did the unthinkable. She set herself aflame and jumped from a building so high that when she hit the ground, she was so damaged that they couldn’t put her together again.
They tried. In their fury, they desperately searched for unscorched DNA particles. In vain. My mom showed them. We are still able to die when we choose to.
I went one night and sprayed on the building of the "Centre for Death Control" an ancient poem from a primitive period when human beings were still allowed to die, ate flesh and made war, and actually had sex to get children. It was one of my favourite poems (even though it was only about an egg):
Humpty Dumpty sat on the Wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
And all the King’s horses
And all the King’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty
Together again.
The graffiti was already gone the next day, and all poetry was subsequently banned. But it was worth it.
My mom and I have shown them. They are not God. Not yet.
Looking at the story
This science fiction story represents a terrible vision of the future. What is this vision?