FictionPosted by Author Sat, August 19, 2017 11:28:27
and stacking of papers)
. . Clears throat . . .
celebrity hacker known as Mr_ethica1 informed us at the United States
of the Universe Post hours ago of an alternate dimension to the one
we live in. Already being termed the 'Ghost Dimension', it appears to
have been in existence since the year 2020. This human-created
dimension is a virtual recording of sorts, specifically of every
physical event occurring on the surface of the Earth. How this
recorded dimension functions remains unconfirmed, but scientists are
theorizing that a combination of live feeds contribute. Satellite
imagery, cellular phone audio, sonar and thermal data may be compiled
and synced together to create this mirrored image, a virtual world
which can be rewound and replayed.
the Post we caught a glimpse of the Ghost Dimension. It appears
simple enough, a virtual environment in grayscale with high
definition audio, yet upon interacting with the system the power of
it is immediately revealed. A novice user can move freely throughout
the entire world, and even though no direct interaction with the
world is possible any user can effectively spy on anyone in any
location at any time. However there is one hitch – a time related
component. There is a delay of 30 seconds, presumably the amount of
time required to gather and assimilate the live feeds. Not only is
the entire surface of the Earth covered, but according to Mr_ethica1,
the interiors of most structures have been breached. No matter where
you were on the planet, anything that you have done since April 1st
of 2020 has been caught in 3D.
the feed was available for only 15 minutes before an unknown source
took it down. Furthermore USU intelligence agencies offered no
comment about the investigation. But given the scope of the program,
a world-wide effort will likely ensue and more answers should soon
outcry has been immense. Everyone from businessmen to school
children, even homeless bums have stopped their daily activities and
taken to the streets with displays of outrage and demands of privacy.
behavioral scientist at some online university has predicted that a
new form of disorder will likely develop, coined the '30 second rule'
after the amount of time available to savor unique memories before
they become public domain. Buddhism has been prescribed as a remedy
for those seeking spiritual relief, as it provides the ability to
live in the 'here and now', and converts from all faiths are storming
the temples. It was just reported that the Dalai Lama, who was
delighted by the new following, in a paradoxical teaching attempt
hung a sign around his neck with the inscription: “Your eye in the
sky isn't welcome on our plane” before going into a meditative
state. Five minutes later a suicide drone attack did him in.
put the hysteria into perspective, the world's oldest cyborg and
recent author of Rock 'n Roll: Music Theory for the
Post-Generations is live in the studio with us.
you, wise cyborg, have any recommendations?
the problem is real simple. If there's something strange in your
neighborhood, who you gonna call?”
in the news room)
ain't afraid of no ghost.”
that all of the advice you can offer us?
. . . buy a gun, of course.”
FictionPosted by Author Wed, April 05, 2017 14:39:07
“Here is your spending limit,” I say as I hand them each a 100 peso bill. “Use it for food, water, whatever you feel is essential. And if you brought cash, forget anything you've heard about using US currency here. This isn't a resort area, your dollar has no value. This bill is all that you get.” Then I turn and say, “Follow me.”
As I walk by a garbage can, I toss a paper sign with the name 'George Buchanan' on it. The code-name changes every week so that I don't have to start paying off security guards at the airport. Cash is king when you operate under the table, and when one sniffs it out they all come begging. I change my appearance, switch up the meet-up point, and take different routes out of the terminal for additional piece of mind.
“Take one and pass it around,” I say as I give a handful of electronic key chains to a twenty year old male. “It's a GPS tracking device. Clip it to a belt loop, somewhere out of sight.”
A few rays of the morning sun have spilled out onto the sidewalk. I walk through the glass door and look right before taking a left. The group is glued to me. But one of the students pauses to take a picture of a rainbow-colored México sign in the median of the street. “Hey!” I say, “Save it for later. Now is not the time for tourism.” I glare at the group and then follow up with, “Nor is it for questions.”
As we continue along the sidewalk and toward the entrance to the metro, I hand a knife to the female nearest me and say, “There is an unspoken rule here that public transport is reserved for lower-class citizens. And right now we look like a group of movie stars.” I point toward one student who is wearing a bright orange undershirt and motion for him to zip up his jacket. “So we need to downgrade our appearance. Think of a time when you accidentally damaged some clothing – a dog biting your pant leg, snagging your jacket on a door handle, hopping over a fence when you came home drunk from a frat party, whatever. Take the knife and make a hole, tear or rip, not too big, but just enough to be noticed. Natural location.”
I walk toward the edge of the sidewalk and lunge downward. With my hand I scoop up some dirt. “Keep walking forward,” I say as I pass among the group. I pat the dirt on knees and elbows. “Don't take this personal, I'm trying to help,” I say as I swipe a line across one female's neck.
“It's rush hour. You are about to experience a lot of people in a hurry. We still look out of place so don't mob together. Remember that you have a tracker, I can find you. Keep a bit of distance between each other so that we don't become a target.”
As the taquilla comes into view, I hand each a 10 peso coin and say, “you're going to buy your own tickets. It's not important that you don't understand the language. Purchase two tickets, they are 5 pesos each.”
There is a bit of hesitation but I receive no objections. I observe each student as they approach the window. The first holds up two fingers. The others follow suit.
“Simple to blend in, huh?” I say as they converge back around me, “mimic and keep up.” We pass through the turn-styes and head into the station.
“If you haven't already, memorize my appearance now,” I say. “How do you pick me out? First, I'm a gringo. Two, I'm wearing a blue coat with the collar flipped up.” I turn up my jacket collar.
The foot traffic grows heavier and I have to raise my voice. “Okay, we're on Linea 5, it's yellow!” I yell, “The station that we are going to is called Autobuses del Norte!”
I stop the group in front of a subway map. “The system here is very intuitive,” I say and point toward it. “You have five minutes. Memorize it. One at a time you will give me the directions to get to the next station and then how to return here, with your eyes closed. No questions.”
It doesn't happen often but if a student fails at this task, I discretely plant a real GPS unit on them for my own peace of mind.
Everyone in this group passes the verbal test. We continue on toward the tracks. The mass of commuters behind the yellow line of entry is five thick. “Good luck!” I say as I dive into the sea of people. When the first train arrives, the mob caves in toward the opened door. One of the students squirms on. The final four remain with me. I smile with the thought that she could be the first ever to pass the final test.
The rest of us maintain our position in the crowd. In a couple of minutes we cram onto the next train that arrives. In the cab we are packed in tight, standing, without a chance to grab hold of a bar for stability. “Go with the flow here,” I say. “Stand firm, yet remain flexible. Be prepared for sudden stops and changes in direction by relaxed observation.” As the train careens around a curve, everyone within is tossed in that direction. One of the students topples into me. “Stick your heels out and dig in,” I say to him.
I breath a sigh of relief when I spot the first student waiting at our metro destination. She joins the group without the need for my signal. Then I rush them into the bus station. They follow me to the second from last counter within.
“Seis, por favor,” I say to the lady working the counter. I hand her two 500 peso bills. She hands me back three 100s. I don't pick it up. “Está equivocado,” I say to her as I point toward the stack of bills and then at the string of digits displayed on her register. The ticket lady shrugs her shoulders in surprise. They she forks over the missing 100 peso bill. I turn and look at the students to make sure that they all witnessed it.
On the way to the security checkpoint, I hand them their round trip tickets and say, “I know that we have entered a technological age where paper money is rarely exchanged, but it is more important than ever to always keep track of every dime to your name. There are scammers everywhere. Don't be misled by appearance, title, or relationship. Everyone is a con artist when money is involved. Manage your assets well.”
We continue outside to the designated terminal. Five minutes of heavy breathing pass before a bus marked with a pyramid pulls in and parks. We enter and take seats in the middle. “Alright, you have me for an hour. Any questions?” I say.
The students are usually so jacked up on adrenaline by this point that they forget how to speak. But this group doesn't hesitate. The girl who entered the metro solo is the first to say something. “When are you going to tell us what we are supposed to do?” she asks.
I bring a finger and thumb to the side of my forehead and look down for a moment. Then I raise my head up and say, “Restart. You each have only one question. Choose wisely, I may not answer it.”
At the last stop within city limits a man enters with a video camera. He passes by each passenger, focuses the lens on each face, then exits from the bus. The students turn to me with puzzled looks, but they remain silent.
“Somebody murdered a few passengers a month ago,” I say. “He's still at large.” I open a video on my cell phone and pass it around. It is footage from the bus security camera during the actual event. After the cell phone is passed back to me, I close my eyes and take a nap.
When the road turns to dirt, the turbulence shakes me awake. The bus stops a few minutes later. We exit and I walk the students to the entrance. A group of vendors charge us near the gate.
“Eyes forward,” I say.
The merchants surround us and shove trinkets in our face. A barrel-chested native blows a deafening whistle that makes the sound of a jaguar roar. From the corners of my eyes I watch the students closely. None jump, not a flinch. We pass through unscathed.
“The only way to deal with beggars is to ignore them,” I remark. “Don't sweat personal insults.”
At the entrance to the Avenue of the Dead, I stop the group near a large plaque. I give them ample time to read the description. The final lines read, Welcome to Teotihuacan. The place where men become gods.
Once everyone has looked up I say, “We've arrived. And now you have a choice.”
I hold an index finger up, “option number one.” I lower my hand and hold an open palm forward, “turn in your GPS units.” I straighten up and point north toward the Pyramid of the Moon, “You can roam freely, you'll be on your own,” I say as I sweep my hand south to the Citadel. “You already have tickets for the bus, metro, and flight.” I lower my hand. “And you know the route.” Then I look at each student individually. “But I can't guarantee your safety.”
There is a shuffling of feet amongst the group.
“Or,” I say as I shrug my shoulders, “option dos. Use your deposit.” I pull out my cell phone. “This is a secure line.” I open a financial app on the screen and hold it up. “You can keep the GPS units and you get me as a guide.” I put on my best rehearsed smile, “I only need your authorization for it to go through.”
The group is quiet.
“What is your choice?” I ask.
To myself, I begin to count, One, two. . .
The girl who traveled the metro solo is the first to make a move. She approaches me. When I realize that she isn't going to hand over my property, I involuntarily hang my head a bit. I catch myself in the act, stand up straight and hope that no one noticed. Before she is able to grasp for my cell phone, the rest follow suite.
Group behavior, every damn time.
I've tried different deposits, ranging from 100 to 1,000 USD, but it only seems to impact the amount of resumes sent in. I'll probably close up shop and seek another adventure for myself the moment that a gifted introvert with independent talent decides to take charge of their life. But for now, at three filled trips per week – business is good.
Creative NonfictionPosted by Author Sun, April 03, 2016 14:25:27
considered myself fortunate. The soft chime of the alarm from my
Mexican cell woke me on time. I hadn't relied on such a device for
three months now. I rolled out of the bed, groaned a bit, silenced the phone, and
jumped into a cold shower. It was 6 am.
events of the previous night had bore an impending sense of dread
deep-down and through my gut. I thought I was prepared for the trip.
The infamous procrastinator that I am, I hadn't thoroughly
researched the town that I was traveling to. I knew that the house
that I would be renting for the next few months was located in a
remote village on the outskirts of Mexico City. I knew that the
owners of the place spoke fluent English. I knew that the location
was close to nature. I knew that the house didn't have internet. The
final point didn't sink in until last night. Out of a sense of
obligation for an upcoming lack of internet, I performed the research
necessary to survive in the absence of technology. I pinpointed all
useful locations within the town – grocery stores, bus routes,
established banks, etc. I took mental notes along with computer
screen-shots for insurance. It didn't take long. Satisfied, task
accomplished, still plenty of time to sleep.
to move the pointer toward the [x] of the internet window. And then,
Google maps surprised me. It provided the option of going from a
birds eye view all the way down to the street level. Interesting,
I thought, this option wasn't available when I reserved the place. I
clicked on the invitation, and my virtual tour commenced.
dwellings within town appeared rural enough, even though the area
seemed more densely populated than I had imagined. Lots of one
lane streets without sidewalks. Good so far. However as I continued
my virtual tour, along the route leading to my house, graffiti on the
buildings appeared. And in a few clicks of the mouse it progressed
from worrisome to alarming. Every exterior surface had been tagged
with gang activity. Not a single building was spared. My place – a
grand-fucking-masterpiece. I pictured myself walking these streets
the next day. From every direction, poverty-stricken gang members
appear and attack like a rabid pack of wolves, stripping me of all
personal possessions. This grew within my mind. . . I could handle
a couple, I
thought, but firearms? And festered.
My roommate found me outside at 2 a.m. smoking a cigarette.
“Excited about your trip?” he asked.
I broke it down for him.
“Tequila? Why don't we finish the bottle,” he said.
At 3 a.m. I stumbled into a spinning bed.
After the cold shower I packed. At 7 a.m. I was waiting by the front
door. My ride from Blablacar texted me. “We'll be there in 15
minutes.” I smoked a cigarette. 15 minutes passed. I watched out
the window. I began to consider alternative last minute travel options. If
I hailed an Uber cab, I could make it to the bus terminal with plenty
of time to spare before the 10 o'clock departure. Another 15 minutes
passed. If I booked a flight, I could be in Mexico City before noon.
I considered taking a nap. And then around 8 a.m. I heard a vehicle
stop on the street in front of the house. I looked out the window.
The driver was fingering her phone. I grabbed my bag and left
After greeting my road companions and speaking to them en español,
the conversation magically morphed into English. Although I
had been immersed in the country for a few months now, the
acquirement of a language is a long process and my progress had yet
to graduate from the elementary level.
The driver was a world traveler herself. She had many interesting
tales to tell. She had been to twice the amount of countries I had
visited in half the time. The highlight, or at least my personal
favorite detail, was her current mode of physical conditioning. She
was training to perform handstands and polestands. “What's a
polestand?” I asked. She handed me her cellphone and I watched a
video of her hoisting herself on a flagpole and almost reaching
horizontal before tumbling down. Another travel companion, who didn't
speak English, entertained me with photos of his recent solo
wanderings. In one photo, he stood along a deserted highway next to
his motorbike. He was wearing camo pants and a leather jacket. In one hand he held a snake longer than he was tall overhead. This combination of boasting leads me to wonder if another species on our planet could undergo genetic mutation and overtake humans Planet of the Apes style. I conclude yes, kick up my feet for now and enjoy the show. The spoils of travel
exchange freely in the process of adventure and become part of the
tale for the next.
50 kilometers outside of city limits, a patrol car approached and
pulled alongside. We glanced over. The familiar Red and Blue flash.
We pulled over and waited for the officer to make his way. This was
my first encounter with la policía.
I had heard stories of corruption, but I was still naive. Surely
you can't bribe police officers, I reminded myself of this thought. But before I could say “Hola,” the stories became
reality. The officer informed us that we needed a 'visitors permit'
to drive within city limits. But, my driver insisted, the car was registered in Jalisco
and had all of the necessary nomenclature displayed. The officer
didn't care. He explained the law. I caught bits and pieces of the
Spanish he was using. It sounded like bullshit. My driver handed him
1,500 pesos. The officer told us that we would be safe for four days.
Back on the road, my driver received a phone call from her mother.
“You gave him too much!” the phone said.
6 p.m. The house turned out to be exactly as I had imagined when I booked it. The gang
markings were gone, perhaps just a figment of my imagination. The
lack of sleep and excess of tequila were real. I wished my traveling
companions good fortune. Then I proceeded onto the next step of my
adventure, right where it had started – la cama.