Send in the Clones

In the atomic year 8900.33 biological technology is highly detailed. People can have clones made of themselves. These clones have the exact personality, memories, and attributes of the person. They are fabricated in large wombs, and great effort is made to include every imperfection, every aspect.


Birth is easy, and clones are born with the knowledge they chose to be cloned. This existence is with explicit consent. No clone can be created against the will of the person, since they have all the memories, any deception is apparent.


I had 10 clones made recently. I had so much to do, so many tasks. I was overwhelmed. There were unfinished projects, new projects, and little chores I needed done, I simply didn’t have the time. I went to the clone facility and paid my credits. I was scanned, sampled, and given all the information on how to deal with my clones.


The facility was a semi-religious place called the Church of Loa. They were famous for creating heroes from myth and legend and acting out social change with these characters. The stories became society’s way of dealing with the chaos of our world and the immense complexity of life today.


Regardless, the Church of Loa was the place you needed to go to get clones made. I was willing, so my clones would be willing. I was eager so my clones would be eager.


They were made in 3 days, and I was present at their birth. I welcomed them to existence, which was rather disorienting at first. We all said the same thing at the same time, in the same way. The echo lasted a few hours before we were able to find a silence and method to speak in turn.


We all knew what the tasks were and how to do them. We now needed a method of determining which one of us would be doing which task. We decided to use dice. We rolled for each task and agreed to begin work at once. I rolled the dice too, and even though I was the original, we didn’t think of myself as any different, we were 11 people with the same mind.


Small differences occurred over the next few days. However, the clones and I all looked the same and sounded the same, so empathy was easy. I didn’t have any self-loathing; however, I did have some self-apathy, which made the process a little easier. I didn’t care about being original or unique.


Soon the tasks started to be completed and those who finished began helping the others. Each day we came together and retold our adventures and trials. We shared how we felt, and deepest emotions. We used these small differences to separate ourselves from the whole.


After 2 weeks, most of the tasks were done and our previous harmony was beginning to degrade.


We decide on mortal combat to determine who would live. All 11 of us would fight to the death, and the single remaining victor would survive. Agreeing to this was easy, I had thought of this as a resolution before being cloned, so they all were familiar with the idea.


There was 1 clone who didn’t want to fight, we killed them first. Then broke off into pairs. Some used weapons, some used physical combat. I used a large pipe, and my clone used a shovel. We struggled and swung wildly. I stunned them and ended the combat quickly. Others dragged their fights out longer. Then after resting we paired up again.


The 2 pairs fought ruthlessly, and I sat and watched, I was the odd clone out. Everyone was evenly matched, and luck decided the result, much in the same way as the dice roll. Sometimes we attacked at the same time in the same way.


Then the 3 remaining bodies fought, and the original died from combat wounds. The remaining victor was responsible for the burial and disposal of the bodies. My bodies were put into a hyperbolic chamber and atomized. I returned the remains to the Church of Loa and was given a certificate of originality.


Now I don’t have as much to do, and my burdens are lessened. However, I feel restless and think that if I had 10 more clones again, we could really change the world. We could invent sorts of global solutions and immense plans. I have written down many of these ideas, and when I’m ready, I’ll get cloned again.


I know there are risks to cloning, since every replication can cause copy errors, leading to cancer. I know I’m a clone. I have seen my weak spots, I have heard my own voice through the violence, and seen myself die.

 

Next time, I think I would prefer a different kind of suicide.

Gargantuan Graves

 

2-tone microphones with no middle ground,

Dangerous drought in thirsty old towns,

Heartbeat and headaches running from sounds,

Sunburned freeways going both ways,

4 golden eggs and butterfly fly rust,

Held together by screws, covered in dust.

 

Sunlight soaks up the water in time,

Nighttime is covered in poisonous lime,

3 dozen diamonds dipped in the slime,

Divided by oceans, rented by kings,

Drinking down days, whatever it brings,

Cucumber sandwich, shuffling witch,

Hexed in high heels, left in a ditch.

 

Down with the dirt, emptied by worms,

Down the to the river where salty waves churn,

They’ll eat all the plastic and poisonous fumes,

Until all of the diamonds, and all of the kings,

Have nothing to drink, and nothing to sing,

Peace is a grave with nothing to save,

No sound and no head, to think of the waves.

 

When the stage is all clear, and there is nothing to fear,

The mechanical bugs, and chemical thugs,

The wood is all eaten, and the microphone dead,

The eggs will start hatching,

In silence, instead.

The billionaire buffet is thrown from a cliff,

The table is messy, there is blood on the knives,

Their money won’t save them from losing their lives.

 

Leatherbound dragons stretched over the sky,

Eyes filled with stars, waiting to cry,

Little blind moths will drown in the rain,

They’ll talk to the dead in thunderous pain.

 

 

Holographic Entrails

Welcome to another episode of ITR: Intergalactic Telepathic Radio, broadcasting over local systems and beyond! I’m your host today Venflax7 as we enjoy the variety the galaxy has to offer!


First, we will be listening in on a new star being born, their first words and the sparkles given off into the night sky. They are a G-type star with a nice companion planet to keep their barycenter just a little wobbly, enough for a few billion solar cycles. Will biological life evolve in the outer edges? Perhaps the terrestrial ring?


We go to our correspondents in the Palace of Gemstone located in the Tarantula Nebula with a segment called “Shower Thoughts with Shower Thots”


The broadcast image changes into curvy, green-skinned figures washing their phalanges and extremities. They are in the middle of discussing the Fermi paradox.


“Well perhaps the reason we haven’t found life is because we are the first life forms to make it out this far. Our mutations and societal collapses are the foundation for more life, and the net hasn’t been cast out that far yet? “


A figure sprays their soapy thighs down and the curve of their legs draws the camera down. Then another voice replies.


“Well, if life is caused by seeds of other life, then alien and native are a fuzzy distinction at best. This only pushes the problem back into the opaque history of the galaxy, rather than illuminating it!”


The broadcast then transmits the new idea, and the figures begin discussing the new topic as they wash their hair with iridescent bubbles.


“Well a barycenter is vital for new stars, but those elements are needed, so even if it dies quickly, perhaps the nearby Glorts will scavenge the system, and leave their DNA behind?”


The slow and sensual hair washing is done with green hands, each with 9 fingers, crowned in purple nails. There is a pause, and the other figure responds.


“If life feeds on life, and the decay and destruction process is required, then perhaps the definitions of life are too strict to be able to see it elsewhere? How much variety from a single source is required before we can claim the universe is full of life?”


The Shower Thots continue their washing for a few moments then the image returns to the host Venflax7.

“Next up we have a couple of real movers and shakers in a Wolf-Rayet system buried in the Cygnus sector. They have some hot new ideas from their home world. They will be sharing their vision of an invention not yet copyrighted. “


The camera transitions to a couple of plasmoids, made of oranges and purple haze talking through a magneto voice oscillator.


“Creatures of sub-plasma orientation, we come to offer you the latest in bio-plasma conversion. Want to travel at light speed? Well, our invention converts bio-material and complex viscous membranes into plasma patterns. We ionize you, copy you, and put your pattern in a magnetic containment chamber for organization. We promise this isn’t another disintegration box! “


The broadcast is cut short and returns to the host Venflax7.


“We apologize for the last broadcast, as we try and limit advertisements to the upper band wavelength. Those clever plasmoids always trying to convert us into their energy forms. Before this episode is over, we would like to show a live feed of 2 neutron stars about to collide and create more gold than the vaults of those ancient Doosadarians.”


The image shows 2 brilliant stars of white and blue drawing closer to each other. The light fills the screen and the edges of gravity begin to compress the 2 shapes until they finally snap. A ring of yellow and green radiate out and a dazzling array of prismatic flares, bolts, and waves, unraveling until finally leaving a dull nebula.

After a moment of silence, the host returns…



“See you next time folks as we investigate blackholes and their tax returns.”

 

My Favorite Axe

I have an axe which I keep in a corner. Its next to the door of my basement. My axe is sharpened every week. I grind it down until the edge is bright and gleaming. The door in my basement leads outside. The world beyond is green and wet.


This new axe has a plastic handle. My previous axe handle broke since it was made of wood. The handle flew off and almost hit me when I was chopping wood. I don’t do use my axe to chop wood anymore. This new axe is light and fast. I swing it upwards and downwards. I keep it out of the rain so it won’t rust, next to the door of my basement.


My axe is very large, its bigger than a blade and handle. I only have a piece of whole. The blade can cut in any direction when it’s all put together. My axe is beyond my body and my hands. I hold my axe with my mind. I can see without eyes, when my axe lands, I know it will hurt.


My axe isn’t my own. I found it in a book, on a page, deep inside a dream. I dragged my axe up from the ocean. I washed the blade in tears. It can never be clean, no matter how much I try. When I take my axe out, I burry it in the dirt, I swing it through the sky, and it falls on the necks of greed and injustice.


My axe can shatter bones and teeth, no matter how small. My axe and split the hairs of fantasy, it can slice the arguments of kings to pieces. My axe can cut the faces of statues, bound by stone. My axe cleaves the treads of tanks and the arms of dictators. My axe has heat seeking software, hardwired to destroy.


My axe is cold, cruel, and brings out the worst in me.


When I swing my axe I don’t have a heart. I forget I’m a human being. I forget about living and dying. I forget about everything except the neck I’m about to cut. The neck is made of buildings and warehouses. The neck is made of a thousand faces, a hundred kings, each wearing a crown.


I look outside my basement door. I look up at the night sky. I look at all the constellations I helped cut down. I hold my axe and join the choir of stars. I swing my axe with everyone else. I cut down heaven with every spiteful breath.


My axe is made for me. The handle is just the right size. The grip is sculpted for my fingers. It weighs less than a feather. When I swing it, I am given wings, from left to right, the pendulum falls. There is no direction forbidden to me.


You can borrow my axe if you want. I can show you how to cut and hack. I can show you how to roll your eyes back and howl. I can show you how to see the sky through relentless tears. I can show you cold sorrow. I can show you the long teeth of endless hunger.


For now, I’ll keep my axe in the basement next to the door. I’ll watch the night crawl by. I’ll dream of swinging my axe, and perhaps I’ll see you there, in those desperate hours. I’ll see you when everyone has an axe to grind. Ill join you when your axe is sharp and swift. I’ll join you when your claws can pull down the Sun. We can hunt together.


You can be my favorite axe, and I can be yours. We will turn and spin, until there is no longer light, and the dawn is hacked to pieces. Then we can bury the blade and the handle. Then we can pour our bones into satisfied silence, next to the basement door.