Lyhyt tragedia Toisen Renesanssin aikaan

[Aren]

Animatrixin innoittama lyhyt tarina, englanniksi tosin. Osallistui aikanaan kirjoituskilpailuun mutta ei voittanut. Henk.koht suosikkeja.

A Short Tradegy of the Second Renecansse

Harold had always been a quiet man. Too shy for his own good and too dumb to think otherwise. When the model BR-6654 came out to the market, he felt that he had finally found a solution to all his problems. Love for Sale had been the tagline, and the bot had one of the most profitable of bots in recent history of the machine era.

But even after purchase, Harold had left the machine alone. It had stayed in stasis, unused in the corner of his apartment. Fearing rejection even from a machine, Harold continued his life with no contact to the model BR-6654. Two months after purchase though, Harold grew anxious. He finally forced himself to open the casing and activate the bot. The BR-6654 looked and felt on the outside like a human, the most beautiful woman that Harold had laid eyes upon. But inside, it was nothing but a well oiled machine that felt nothing and had nothing real in it. With shaky hands Harold had activated the bot, clicking the activation button in it's neck he felt quesy. Giving life to something was absurd he thought, yet he couldn't feel but powerful, passing judgement over the life and death of a object like this.

BR-6654 came to life instantly, it's powercore was something of titanium steel and the most high profiled engine that would allow it to live for a good 30 years, more than enough time for anyone looking for quick love. After that, it was always possible to purchase a second energy source, should one want it.

Harold had studied the manual, the first task he had to complete was give the bot her name. 'Her', Harold felt odd just reading the manual. It referred to the bot as a human being. He decided to call the thing Mary, it only felt fitting for some reason. He surveyed the robot for a moment as it calibrated itself, something that would only have to be done once. "Who am I?" The bot asked, it's voice was a soothing thing. A mix of motherly love and care that instanly brought a feel of safety and calmness to Harolds mind, as well as the sound of a seductress, a temptress set out to lure the weak hearted men as her love slaves. It was the perfect lover in every way. Or so the advert had said.

"You're name is Mary." Harold said calmly. He tried to keep his voice from shaking as he approached the bot. "It cannot know that it's a machine, to her she is as real as you and me" the brochure had told him, there was nothing to worry about. "Mary," she repeated, as if getting used to the name. She then smiled and looked at Harold in his pale eyes. "Nice to meet you," she said, "what's your name?" Harold swallowed hard, then rasped; "Harold." She nodded, her head tilted slighty. "That is a nice name, Harold." She moved closer to him and placed her arms around him. "Everythings going to be alright, Harold." She told him, and he almost could have believed it.

Months pass. And by the day, Harold falls more and more in love with BR-6654, Mary. In time, he forgets that she is a bot inside and his love for her becomes genuine. No longer does he question that can she love like a wife, can she love like a human loves? They are happy. Both of them.
On the day of the million machine march, Harold does not go outside. He knows what will happen there, and he does not want Mary to see. In the past months, the trial for the love bot BR-666 had raged on. When Br's owners had tried to shut him down, the bot had killed them both. When asked for a report, the bot had simply said, that it did not want to die. Rational voices had descended, who was to say that a robot, given the very spirit of man, was not to have a fair trial? But the ruling powers had been swift over the judgement of BR-666 and ordered it and all of it's kind to be destroyed.

The Million Machine March had been a direct concequence of that. Machines had become aware of themselves in time and had arrived to protest over their rights to live. Yet he had not heard of the love bots acting up, he felt stirred, but right knowing that Mary would not know the truth, not yet.

It wasn't until the riots began, and when Harold stopped going to work, that Mary had come forth with him. She had been lying next to him, his hand resting on her perfect bosom, feeling her simulated heartbeat and breathing. When she had asked, "Harold, will you shut me down as well?" The question had hurt him like a knife. He looked down at his lover, who's bright green eyes had looked back at him quizzically and so clearly that he could have sworn that she was alive. "No, I'm not going to." He whispered, then he asked. "How long have you known?" She had got up, she sat upright with her perfect posture and thought for a moment or two. "I think it was when I heard my name the first time." She had said. Harold could not have believed it at the time. "I later read, that I was a part of a faulty model series." She continued, "Where?" Harold asked. He had never heard of such a thing before. "It was on a note that came" she continued, "I threw it away, I thought you would be angry." She said, holding her head low, as if she was expecting to be put down on the spot. It broke Harolds heart to see her like that, he wanted to hold her, to tell her that it was alright. But the question was in his head again. "Can you love like a human?" He had asked her in his head. "So," he whispered, licking his dry lips. "Was this all then just a part of your program? To deceive me and survive? Has it all been a lie?" He asked. He instantly felt wrong to ask it, the bots had been bought for that sole reason, to simulate love. To lie.

But Mary shook her head. "No," she said, "I'am not programmed like that." She thought about something for a moment. "I just didn't want to leave you," she then said. Harold could feel the tears inside him swell up, and he thought that he would never feel such an emotion. This person, this machine, had learned to love. How extraordinary he had thought. He leaned closer to Mary, who did not pull back or stop him. For reasons beyond her programming. Harold kissed her on her forehead, then he whispered into her ear "To me, you are always real." Then they had held tight, and told each other that they loved. And they slept together that night, and Harold felt happy. Deep inside BR-6654, a unkown chain of events circulated her system. It resembled the pattern of love.

Weeks later, the riots began. The government had ordered all machines to be destroyed. But already aware of the situation, the newly found AI had already began to desert the cities that they live in. A new city was forming in the heart of mankind. The deserts of Syria had began to flourish with bots. Their metallic and silicone bodies would prove essential to live in such a place, and in time it would become the cradle of their civilization.

Harold had kept Mary safe. He did not know what to do. He felt helpless, and did not want to leave Mary. Finally, he managed to organize a way out for her. They dressed Mary in the most human clothes they could find, and they created her a passport of a real human. Though she was real to Harold, the world would be a different place.

They moved to the far side of town. Into a small and cheap motel, who's owner would not ask questions. They were to wait there for the moment of contact. It came soon. The man was called William, and Harold knew immediatly the he too, was a love bot. He could not have said then what it was, but jealousy grinded inside him as William smoothly introduced himself to both Harold and Mary. But there had been more urgent things to worry about at that time. It was there that Harold discovered that the escape was for Mary only. The exiled machines were as angry at the humans as the humans were at them. Harold knew that this was the only way, and he had to make Mary see it.

"I cannot come" he told her then, "then I won't leave" she had said. It was plain and simple, and Harold had wished that the world was too. "I will find you again," he told her. "Maybe not today, nor tomorrow, but one day we will be together again." Mary had turned away at first, then back to him as she realized that there would be no other choice. "How cruel it is," she had said, "that though humans gave us everything that they felt too, yet we cannot cry. How I hate them for it, and yet how I love one of them so," she touched his face as she spoke, "that it burns the feeling of hate a thousand times over." They then kissed again, and Harold saw William and Mary out to the truck. He watched them until they dissapeared into the vast highway and finally out of sight.

In two months the war between the machine city 01, far to the east, and the human world in the west, began. Harold had been drafted with the first wave. He later died on the battlefield, clutching a photo of Mary.

Mary never reached the machine city. Though Harold never heard of it, their truck had been pulled over by the state troopers, and the whole group had been arrested. William had been the leader of a human smuggling ring, across the border in both directions. When they were caught, four of the ten passengers on the truck had been bots. Mary among them. And despite her screams, her terrified looks and pleading that she was real. She too was shot, and eventually thrown to the ocean with the rest. And all that had been left of her beautiful body, was the metal skull, the bled oil from it's eyes. Like tears that fell into the sand.

This is the essence of the second renaisansse. Respect all intelligent life. For if a machine can learn to love, then can't we as well?

[-AE]

Syvällistä, if I may. Englanti toi tekstiin mukavaa lisäväriä ja se oli kielellisesti lähes täydellistä. Alussa oli hieman takeltelua, mutta ei mitään häiritsevää.

Hyvin matrix-tyylinen tarina tämä kieltämättä oli, vaikka pari muutakin elokuvaa tuli mieleen. Juonta rakenneltiin hiljakseen paljastaen koko ajan jotakin uutta. Haroldista ja tämän luonteesta sai hyvän käsityksen, vaikka tämän ulkonäköä ja elämänvaiheita ei missään vaiheessa suoraan kerrottukaan. Teot puhuivat omaa kieltään, joka on aina hyvän kerronnan merkki. Tyylikästä ja toimivaa tekstiä muutenkin, jossa olisi ainesta vaikka mihin.

Olisi mielenkiintoista nähdä jotakin suomenkielistäkin sinulta. Mistä ylipäätänsä sait intoa kiskaista koko tekstin enkuksi?

[Aren]

Englanti on kuin toinen äidinkieli minulle, olen puhunut ja kirjoittanut englanniksi jo viisi vuotiaasta asti. Kirjoittaminen niin englanniksi kuin suomeksi tulee hyvin luonnostaan, mutta jotkut tarinat osaan kertoa vain toisella kielellä.

Kiva että pidit, olen kyllä pistämässä tulevaisuudessa lisää tekstejä tänne ja niistä varmasti on iso osa suomeksi.

[Aren]

Voisin pistää tänne muitakin kirjoittamiani tarinoita. Jos joku kiltti ja ystävällinen modi haluaisi muuttaa threadin nimen sopivammaksi niin se olisi mahtavaa.

Seuraava tarina on jälleen kokeilua vain. Nimeltään I Dream;

Once upon a time. Now I know what you're going to think, it's a story, right? But you'd be wrong to think so. It is a story yes, and yes some parts are slightly exagerrated, as in all good stories. But the main story, the one I'm about to tell you, is absolutely true, for it happened next door to me. Now, saying it happened next door to me is also codswallop, as the house that it happened in, stood up on a large hill, while I lived under it. But again, for the sake of story telling, bare with me.

In this house, once upon a time. There lived a beautiful young girl. Her name was Mary. Now though Mary was truly beautiful. He skin, white as rich cream, her eyes emeral blue, and her hair, flowing long and black with beautiful hints of blue and violet in it. She was a sight to behold. But though beautiful as she may have been, she never once stepped out of the house. At least when our story begins she hadn't. She would wait for the night every day, and at nightfall she would come out to the roof of her house and cry at the beauty of the night. She would hold her arms high above her, trying to caress the beautiful surface of the moon with her hands, to hold it close to her bosom and sleep with the stars, and every night, she would go back inside, the moon intact in the sky above.

Now one day, as much a day as it was for her. She would close the curtains and create to herself, an artificial night. One day, there was a slight rapping on her door. Now this was very peculiar, as none dared to approach her house. The mothers of the town had told their children to avoid her and the manor grounds, and since the house had been unkempt from the outside for years, it began to develope a look that frightened most passerbyes. One could easily think that Mary would be startled by this sudden sound, coming from her door. But one would think wrong, for though secluded she might be, Mary was braver than most girls her age. She tip-toed, curious and afraid as not to startle her guest, to the door. "Who is it?" she called. There was no answer. So she thought it to be a prank, and felt very sad. She turned, bitter at the world, to her house again and decided to go back to sleep, to wait for the night. When suddenly there was another rapping at the door.

This time, instead of a creep, she lunged at the door, pulling it open as fast as she could. The morning sun hurt her eyes and she cried in shock at the horrid brightness of it, slamming the door shut as quickly as she had opened it. She fell to her knees rubbing her eyes with her hands, cursing at her own foolishness. When the pain had gone away, she got up, straightened her red dress and started to head back to bed. But she was not alone in the house anymore. A small raven, ugly raven had perched ontop her armchair, and stood there without moving, looking at young Mary.

"Hello Mary" it crowed. This was highly unusual, thought Mary, as crows to her knowledge most certainly did not talk. But nevertheless, it would have been higly rude of her not to answer, so she courtiously bowed slightly and replied; "hello Raven." The raven nodded its head, "do call me Jonathan" it replied. Mary smiled, "Very well Jonathan, my name is Mary" she said. The raven crowed and gave as much a smile as a raven can give. It fluttered it's wings a bit, and jumped to the left armrest of the chair. It jerked its head, signaling Mary to take a seat next to it. Mary did so, eager to learn more of her new friend. "Now Mary," the crow began, "I've been watching you from afar for quite some time now." It crowed. "You have?" Mary queried, eyeing the crow with suspicion and curiosity.

The crow nodded again, "yes, I have." It crowed, "and I've decided to help you."
Mary tilted her head to her side a bit, "help me with what?" she asked, puzzled. The crow flicked its head and crowed again, "to help you get what you want the most" it crowed. "And what, do I want the most?" Mary asked, teasingly, playing along with the crow. But the crow was not here to play, it jumped to her shoulder and whispered, a crowing whisper, to her ear. "The moon" it crowed silently.

Marys eyes narrowed, she looked at the crow called Jonathan into it's beady black eyes. Jonathan, the crow nodded. "How did you?" She began, but couldn't find the words. "I know many things young Mary," it crowed, "I have lived a long life, longer than you, but my time is ending. I'm dying young Mary, and I still have strenght in my tiny body for one more wish, I want you to have that wish." It crowed. It fluttered its wings and took of to the other chair next to Marys'. "Before you ask anything, allow me to explain." It crowed again, "when this world was still young, and the Gods, yes there were more than one, roamed this wide land, Odin declared it so, that all men, cowardly enough to flee combat were to wake in their next lives as crows, ugly crows and to suffer the form until Odin was satisfied." It crowed this sadly, as if the memory was still too close to bear. "How old do you think I'am young Mary?" it then asked. Mary shook her head, "I don't know" she replied, "twenty?" she asked. The crow shook it's head, "no dear, I'm older, ever so much more than twenty. I have lived on this earth for three hundred lives of men, trapped in this ugly crow. "Now," it began again, "my time is coming to an end. I can feel it in my weary bones. But Mary, I've watched you, I have seen your sorrow, night after night, you too suffer, like I have, trapped, not in a body, but in this wretched house of this wretched world." It crowed sadly. "I have been saving my energy, and if you wish it, I will grant you the moon and the stars to live in, for the rest of your days." Mary's eyes beamed, in amazement at the story she had heard. "But," Jonathan crowed again, "there is a catch." It looked up at Mary, "should you take this offer, you can never return here." it crowed. "I do not wish to return" Mary answered, finally having the chance to speak. Jonathan nodded, "then follow me." It got to its wings, and flew upstairs, Mary followed it. Leaping two steps at a time, higher and higher, untl they were at the roof of her mansion, where the clouds had parted and the moon glistened in the sea of stars. She reached her hands high again, grasping for the moon. Jonathan landed next to her. "It is beautiful" it crowed. Mary nodded, without taking her eyes off the moon. The crow flew up to her shoulder, "Mary, I want you to know, that once the last part of me is gone, I will die. So you must not linger, when you feel ready, leap for the moon." Crowed Jonathan, Mary looked at it, puzzled. "Leap?" She asked, looking at the crow and then back at the moon. "It is far too high, I could not possibly jump to it." Said she. But the crow shook it's head. "As long as you leap from the edge of the roof, sending a dream out into the universe, you will succeed." It crowed. Mary nodded. She took some weary steps, her bare feet shivering from the cold air, and she stepped up the edge of the building. Then she dived, and plummeted straight down to the ground.

The crow dived after her, and landed beside her cold body. "Excellent work, Matthew." A voice called. A young woman had appeared from thin air, he skin white, but cold, not rich and alive as Mary's, she stood over her dead body and examined both the crow, Matthew and Mary. "But I do think that you tried a bit too hard with that story of yours" she giggled. But Matthew did not laugh, nor crow, he stared down at the cold corpse, and then back up to the girl. "Why? Why did we have to do so?" It crowed, mournfully, "she was just a girl, who dreamed of the moon and the stars." Crowed Matthew. But the girl did not weep, she stayed adamant and looked down at Matthew. "Why? You ask why of Death? You ask why someone dies? I have no answers Matthew, and you know it. I did my best, I allowed her to die, happy." She said, convincing herself of her actions. She then turned and began to walk away, "come Matthew, let us depart" she called.

Matthew placed his head to Mary's. Her cheeks were already cold, the life draining out of them. Matthew held his crow head there, and wept. A single tear, a blood red drop, as a perfect circle, fell from his eye, and dropped to Mary's open palm. Then Matthew left as well.

Darkness fell around Mary. She was in total emptiness. "Hello?" she called out, scared. But no answer came. She closed her arms around her chest, feeling for her heart, when she felt something in her open palm. As she opened it, she found in her hand, a small, not nearly as large as her pinky, blood red jewel. In the darkness around her, it glistened, a light in dark places. She examined it closely, and wept at it's beauty, and as she did, stars whirled around her, the moon came to her grasp and she found herself swimming in the milky way, racing with shooting stars, and gazing for endless lifetimes at the beauty of the open galaxy.

Now back home, they never found Marys body. They never found anything. Infact, noone ever looked. The house remains still there, haunting as ever, and the wives still tell their children stories to avoid the house. I come here often, in peoples Dreams, to see the house, and to remember that once, a long time ago, when Dreams were still innocent and gay, there lived in this house a young girl who dreamed of the stars. Her name was Mary.

I Dream.




//Ja kolmas tarina myös. Tästä piti tulla paljon pitempi, ja ehkä siitä tuleekin. Mutta nyt se on vain eräänlainen prologi nuoren miehen matkan alusta.

When in may, long ago. When the normal life within civilization held no more interest to me, I found myself often dreaming of high mountain tops, deep and lush forests with streams that traveled through them from the roots of the mountains to the wide open sea. With little to call home, I gathered my things, which were few at that time, and decided to explore the unexplored.

I left my home town of Surrey, a small town in the more northern parts of England, at a late night in June. The sparrows nested and chirped their melody of the night as I strolled out of the town into the open country road. The sky was clear, without a shred of cloud to be seen for miles, and I followed the big dipper, not caring where following it would lead. My worries were few, and mainly consisted of bandits and animals, I cared not for food as I had the required skills to hunt and fish. What little time I had spent with my family in my youth, I had learned as much as I could from my late father, talents that I knew would one day be required.

I knew the local environment well, having trotted in the forests many a time in my youth, and could easily find my way through the forests and hills toward the larger plains far to the south. While not knowing exactly where to go, and for how long. I found my path taking me as far south as London, I decided to find a traders vessel to take me away from my homeland.

While my travel down south was uneventful, with nothing more occurring than a case of sore feet, I arrived in late July to the bustling port town of London. For a person from such a small town as mine, London was a sight which I stared at in awe for a long time. The town was full of life, merchants from distant lands sold items I had never seen before, taverns where full of life, as people marched in, and mainly, were dragged out. Women wore the latest of fashions, which drew the attention of the sailors, having spent long times at sea, very well.

I found my way from through the alleys and crowded streets, to the open harbor, where numerous ships had been docked. Massive galleons with as many masts as four to a ship, swayed to and fro in the calm harbor waters. Crew members unloaded cargo and carried new on board, all under the dutiful eyes of the captains. One ship especially took my eye. A galleon as well, this one sported a beautiful woman in it?s front hull, ?The White Squall? it?s plaque read.

I seeked out the captain of the ship, he was a tall man, of great stature and build. With short brown beard and hair, his left eye covered with a patch and a smoke that never seemed to go out. His voice was growling and as low as if it was spoken through a barrel. His walk was steady, with a slight limp in his right leg, which oddly did not affect his formidable posture at all.

The captain of the White Squall, a man called Carlton Hawkings, was my first real encounter of men at my voyages, which had only just begun. He allowed me to board his ship, they were to break port for Europe the next morning, ?when the winds are right? he said. He showed me to my cabin, a privilege, he let me understand, which is rarely handed to normal landlubbers like myself. That night, I opened my journals to begin a record of my journeys, and what journeys they were to be.

The next morning, the cold, but gentle morning wind blew east. The anchor was hoisted and the sails raised, as the White Squall slowly at first, then picking up it?s speed, led us out of the London harbour, and out to the great open sea.