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Never done one of these before, but I'm in. Here's to the first of many embarrassments by my own hands!
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May 22, 2013 17:34
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Happy for the extension, since I'm 10 minutes late putting this in. Thanks for your consideration! Crushed Underthumb (996 Words) Manu was a man who lived in the great city of Ygriega. He was so fair in body and in face that he was adored by the womenfolk of his town, from the young to the old, be they virgins or betrothed. He was the son of a well-known lord in Ygriega, expected to follow in his father’s footsteps, but spent his time gallivanting about with the ladies of Ygriega, believing that his father’s work was beneath him. Manu’s efforts were instead concentrated on maintaining his infamous beauty. He bathed in milk, rubbed himself with aloes, took herbs, and followed ancient remedies, all to keep his skin as clean and clear as Lake Alitheia, Ygriega’s renown source of fresh water, and a popular destination for travelers. It was in this same lake that Manu was taking a swim, just before the break of morning; a habit Manu had maintained at such an hour as to avoid the masses of commoners, pilgrims, and other unwashed folk which Alitheia was lousy with during the day. On this occasion, Manu came under distress when his foot caught on a branch, pinning him underneath the water’s surface. He very nearly lost his life to Alitheia when he was rescued by a cloaked stranger who freed his trapped limb and pulled Manu to shore. As Manu regained consciousness, he heard labored breathing from a figure leaning over him. He blinked his eyes open and could just barely make out the horribly carbuncled face of his savior. Shocked, Manu sat up sharply, accidentally bumping heads with the man, and recoiled in disgust. “Do not be alarmed,” the cloaked figure told Manu. “My name is Spiro. I know my condition seems frightful, but I’ve taken great care not to touch the bare flesh of your noble body as I pulled you from the lake.” But Manu remained repulsed at the sight of Spiro, and at the thought of having been rescued by such a lowly, pathetic creature. He ran off, clutching the spot on his face where he had collided with Spiro, without saying a word of gratitude. He used his father’s influence to have Spiro located and properly exiled from the city under the guise of protecting the people of Ygriega, but otherwise told nobody of the incident that had transpired at the lake, even after an abscess appeared on his cheek. It was after a few nights that Manu began hearing a tiny voice emanating from the blemish. He ignored it at first, but the voice grew as the blemish itself did. Manu had planned on avoiding leaving his commons until his skin reperfected itself, but he’d grown restless and elected instead to grow a beard in order to cover it up, allowing him to continue his nightly traipses. The beard muffled the voice as well, giving Manu much relief, and he soon forgot about his lesion. *** “You mustn’t ignore me!” cried the tiny voice, enveloped in fear and darkness. “Silence,” came a sharp reply from seemingly every direction. “I am Krypsis, and I have been summoned to protect the world from your existence.” “Protect the world? By covering me up? I don’t understand.” “You are an abscess on the face of the world,” Krypsis retorted. “You deserve nothing but darkness and silence. You offer us nothing of importance.” “My name is Pyo,” the first voice answered, protesting, “and I can’t help the way that I look, ok? But if you’re just going to ignore me completely, and deny me the help that I need, then I may do something bad and put your world in danger!” “Enough!” Krypsis roared. “You are a blight, and are not worthy of help. I seek only to hide you and smother you from existence.” *** Time passes, and Manu becomes increasingly bothered by his blemish. It itches beneath his beard, and causes him pain to the touch. It begins to affect his womanizing, as his former admirers find his lengthening beard off-putting as he pulls at it with increasing frequency. Finally Manu has enough. He digs into his facial hair, and taking the offending zit between his thumb and forefinger, he grimaces and squeezes until it explodes, spewing pus throughout his whiskers. Not satisfied, he takes a razor and begins angrily chopping away at the beard until there is no hair left, exposing finally the fresh scar from where the pimple had just been. Much to Manu’s horror, however, the infection slowly spreads across his visage, infesting the tiny cuts on his cheeks and jaw caused by his overzealous shaving. He is forced to come clear to his father about his condition, as he can hide it no longer. Ygriega’s finest medicine men are baffled by the affliction. Manu’s father instructs his son to locate Spiro outside of the city in the hopes that the man may know more about the malady. After a great search, Manu finally does locate Spiro, who sits alone on a dried out tree stump within a nearby forest. “Yours is a face that is almost unrecognizable, yet so familiar to me,” Spiro says as Manu approaches, looking upon his lesioned face. “You were the one who had me exiled. Why do you leave the city to find me now?” Manu sighs deeply and replies, “Because, sir, I realize that I have wronged you in so many ways. You risked your life to save mine, and I never thanked or rewarded you for your selfless actions. I was wrong to think myself better than you, or anybody else, simply because of their appearance. I, and the people of Ygriega, have wronged you by ignoring you for so long and neglecting to offer you the assistance you need. I come to you, Spiro, to ask you for your forgiveness, and for your help.” Spiro smiles. “Then you have learned your lesson, young man. I will help you.”
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May 27, 2013 05:11
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1979: Robert Williams, a worker at a Ford Motor Co. plant, was the first known human to be killed by a robot, after the arm of a one-ton factory robot hit him in the head. I...I can't not do this. I'm in.
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May 29, 2013 19:17
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Hey crabrock, looks like you accidentally deleted the prompt from your earlier post. It's 1400 words, with the caveat that there be no mention of clothing, right?
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May 31, 2013 04:22
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(Robert Williams, 1979, a worker at a Ford Motor Co. plant, was the first known human to be killed by a robot) The Deactivation of Robot Williams (1397 words) “Honey, I’m leaving. I’m working a double shift so I won’t be home until late.” I dip my paintbrush into a mug of water sitting next to me on the dining room table and swirl it around a time or two. I look up and see Michelle bending down to give me a kiss. I receive it and smile up at her briefly before returning my gaze back to my painting. “Keep an eye on the time,” Michelle warns. “I’d hate for you to be late to work because of your painting.” “Ok,” is all I reply. “I love you.” “I love you too.” I’m still staring at the painting, taking in its imperfections. I remove the brush from the mug and place it on the edge of the easel. Maybe it is time to give it a rest, I thought. ‘I thought.’ I’ve really only been ‘thinking’ for a few weeks now. I was in a hospital bed the first time I had any thoughts. They told me my name was Robert Williams: husband, automobile factory worker, victim of an accident, and lucky to be alive. One woman identified herself as my wife, Michelle, but I didn’t recognize her at all. Total amnesia was the doctors’ diagnosis. The truth is, I ‘remember’ working at the factory. I only have a dim awareness of my surroundings then, but I even ‘remember’ the accident, when Robert Williams mistakenly grabbed a wire that powered my mechanical arm, electrocuting himself and shorting me out. Robert Williams died that day, and somehow, I was transported into his body. Which makes me Robot Williams, I often chuckle to myself. I walk into the kitchen and stick a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. I flick on the radio, and my ears are filled with the warms sounds of Prokofiev. I delight in the fact that my new body allows me to learn and enjoy so many art forms, though Robert was never interested in it, so I go along with the amnesia diagnosis to avoid suspicion. Robert’s friends constantly remind me of his old habits – how he eats, the way he holds a cigarette, the stupid way he expresses happiness by sticking his fist in the air, waving it around in a circle and shouting “Woo, Woo, Woo” – with the intention that it will jog my memory, but pointing out his idiosyncrasies instead valuably helps me integrate into humanity. I catch myself staring at the toaster; so strange that a scant few weeks ago, I had more in common with a toaster than with the men who had built it. I grab the browned slices as they pop up and head out the door to go to work, with no intention of returning to home. Today is the last day that I serve any man but myself, whether it be like a toaster burning bread or a factory worker building cars. At the end of my shift, I’ll receive my paycheck, and then I will drive away from Flat Rock forever. Robert associated with simpletons at a dead-end job, and this environment isn’t conducive to my development. A change in scenery is needed, and I’ve settled on New York City: a hub of energy and dynamism. I unlock the door to the Fairmont parked on the curb and sit inside. I remove a letter from the visor addressed to Michelle that I’d penned to her, apologizing for my disappearance, with the intent of leaving for her to find in the evening, but I’ve decided against it at the last minute. I feel no connection to Michelle, despite the affection she’s shown me. We even made love one time, but the event felt so cold and emotionless that it was a disappointing experience. Still, there is something I feel – guilt, perhaps? – that’s led me to withdraw the letter, worried that Michelle may blame herself everything. This decision makes me feel optimistic about my emotional development. I start the engine and pull onto the road, reflecting back on my anger over being used as man’s tool, yet I recognize my hypocrisy as I convey myself with this contraption of metal flesh and oil blood. It’s only temporary, I ease my doubts. Just until New York. Once I’m at a fast speed on the thoroughfare, I toss the letter out the window. I pull into work alongside dozens of other discounted Fords. I park, punch in, and trudge through the narrow front hallways, surrounded on both sides by posted safety warnings. I rationalize during my walk that repeating the same blasé routine every day must force the workers to dull their own senses to keep from going crazy from the lack of stimulus, the poor bastards. Then again, perhaps if Robert hadn’t tuned out his environment, he may have paid more attention to these safety warnings and wouldn’t have gotten himself killed. His loss will be my gain. I fall in line with a group of my coworkers and follow them into the expansive factory floor. A supervisor pulls me aside upon my entrance. “Good morning, Robert. I know you’ve been doing QA inspections for us since your accident, but Horatio called out today and we don’t have anybody else who can operate the C-7000.” I freeze up. I know that name well. Before I became Robot Williams, I was known as the C-7000. “Robert, you shouldn’t worry,” the supervisor assuages, sensing apprehension. “The C-7000’s wiring has been fixed and inspected twice over. We need your help.” I swallow hard, suppressing my anxiety. I consider feigning some excuse to go home, but if I do that, I won’t be able to get my paycheck until Monday. There is no way I’m spending any more time in this town. “I’ll do it,” I finally reply. The supervisor thanks me and moves along. I – as the C-7000 – was an electronically operated arm with a pneumatic impact wrench, located on the other side of the factory floor. I apprehensively make my way over, unprepared for the encounter with my former, disdainful self. But as I approach, I’m surprised to see that the C-7000 has been cleaned during its inspections. Its bright, polished chrome exterior stands out against the backdrop of a dozen other machines blackened with oil and dirt. As I circle the C-7000, the arm appears to twitch. I jump back, startled, staring at the motionless machine and convincing myself that my mind is playing tricks on me. I laugh at my stupidity for thinking a machine no different from a simple toaster or a basic automobile could move without help, and I marvel at the mind’s ability to create such visual hallucinations. I walk back up to the arm with confidence. “Stupid contraption,” I smugly say out loud, “You are nothing but a tool constructed by man to do man’s bidding. All you can do is what those buttons over there tell you to do,” I continue, pointing at the control box near the base of the arm, “and I press those buttons. Until then, all you can do is dumbly await your orders. I’ve been in your place, machine, so I know what it’s like to know and feel nothing.” My voice is trembling, but growing louder. “Now I am free! I know now the luxuries of being man, and one of those luxuries is dominion over you.” I am inches away from the arm now. “I have been machine. I have been man. But as I stand here now, wielding my power over you, I have become God!” I don’t realize until the arm moves again that I had been staring into a reflection of my own eyes. The C-7000 strikes me in the face, shattering the bridge of my nose and collapsing me to my knees. As I wipe the blood from my face, I wonder if I had somehow pressed one of the buttons on the panel during my confrontation. I look back up to the C-7000 to witness a horrifying sight: the pneumatic arm is raised high in the air, and the impact wrench at the arm’s end is being swung around in a circular motion accompanied by a strained whirring noise. Whir, whir, whir. I can see my frightened face reflected back at me. Or is it Robert’s face? The arm comes down again, and everything goes dark.
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Jun 2, 2013 05:43
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