Homesick

Here's another story through FiftyWordStories.com, this one has a bit of a sci-fi feel to it.  As always, please read and rate on the site.

http://fiftywordstories.com/2013/10/17/chris-griglack-homesick/

Shattered

New 50 word original fiction on FiftyWordStories.com entitled "Shattered."  Feel free to read and rate using the stars below the story.

http://fiftywordstories.com/2013/10/02/chris-griglack-shattered/

Love At Last Sight

Here's an original 50 word story published through FiftyWordStories.com.  Please read and rate using the tool on their site.

http://fiftywordstories.com/2013/08/30/chris-griglack-love-at-last-sight/

Magic!

Some authors are very good at explaining the workings of their magical systems, others are good at leaving an impression of a very powerful force that is not fully understood even by those who dare to use it, and others are just downright terrible at providing any insight as to what the hell is going on.  That's why I've composed these categories to give fans a better understanding of how the most common magic systems work in fantasy literature.  They're by no means official or set in stone as the only types of magic which are effectively used, in fact, they're not even mutually exclusive.  Hopefully there will be more categories to come as I continue to expand my fantasy repertoire, but for now I give you the four categories of fantasy magic.

Like For Like Magic
This is a type of magic usually associated more with darker worlds or characters.  It requires sacrifice or payment to accomplish.  This can be through the methods more traditionally associated with sacrifice, or simply through conversion of materials or forces into other materials or forces.  For instance, alchemy or magics involving consumption of particular ingredients (potions, tonics, etc).  This may also apply to magics drawn from a source if the source has limited power.  For example, a magic stone or talisman infused with power which is channeled until consumed.  Of course, this category also includes demonic pacts, bargaining or trading something for power, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual.

Magic of Will
Magic that is determined by the mental strength of the user.  This is the most classically associated form of magic, and is often found in high fantasy.  Whenever magic is an art that requires studying and practice to apply it is generally magic that is determined by the will of the user.  A novice will never be as adept in any of these schools of magic as an expert unless they are meant to be some sort of prodigy.  This could also include forms of magic which are powered through divine sources, in other words, magics which are temporarily granted to the highly devout based on the strength of their conviction.  A priest or cleric whose powers may no longer work if they were to stop believing, or whose powers may be granted by a different benefactor if they were to convert, though these users may also be considered magical by association depending on the circumstances.

Innate Magic
This is magic that is best thought of in terms of an inherited trait.  Much like some people are born more athletic than others, some may be born with higher aptitude for magic than others.  It may be something that can be balanced out by practice, knowledge, and experience, but this type of magic is largely defined by its users potential at birth, whether this be an inherited genetic trait or random selection.  A great example of this would be the Aes Sedai in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series.  While even the weakest Aes Sedai are able to train and learn how to better use their power, they will never be able to draw in as much of the power as those born with stronger gifts.  In some cases this may even be a racial distinction, eg. all elves are born magic users, some humans, and no dwarves.

Magic By Association
Usually the worst kind of magic.  This is when the magic user themselves does not possess any particular ability for magic, but may wield an item that allows them access to it.  A staff that allows its wielder to ignite fires is a magical staff, but the person who uses it is only magical by association.  Even cases where a character is in an event that triggers powers they otherwise would not have had.  In some cases, the magical item/area/event may only be accessible by some, due to any of the things mentioned above, but until they can use magic without its aid they are not generally considered to be magical.

Rainmaker

Original prose poetry flash fiction "Rainmaker" is now available on LinguisticErosion.com.

http://www.linguisticerosion.com/2013/06/rainmaker.html

Woof!

One of my original micro fiction pieces has been republished by FiftyWordStories.com.  Check out "Woof!" for free, and be sure to leave a rating.

http://fiftywordstories.com/2013/06/13/chris-griglack-woof/

Short Gothic Fiction

Here are two sample Gothic fiction stories I wrote as a contributor for WikiHow.  They page they're on is "How to Write Gothic Fiction."

"Death On The Rocks"
http://www.wikihow.com/Sample/Short-Gothic-Story

"Cold As Ice"
http://www.wikihow.com/Sample/Modern-Gothic-Excerpt

Micro Fiction

Here are two original micro fiction pieces (under 100 words) published by MicroHorror.

http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/chris-griglack/woof/

http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/chris-griglack/call-to-the-grave/

The Reaper

The title should be a link to Linguistic Erosion where this story is posted. 500 words based on the poem Reaping which is found on this site.

The Infinite City

Click on the title and it should bring you to the site where this was published. You can read for free.

Vivimancer

April's 75 word story:

Aziz had been exiled from the Halls of the Dead for practicing the art most despised among the unliving. The monotony of the afterlife had driven him to blur the lines between life and death, only to see his wife for a moment. The dead had cast him out, but kept his beloved, Eda, so his new life was worse than his death. He would give her life, and they would reunite. He vowed it.

Woof!

Here's the under 75 word story for this month. The theme I wrote it on was Crime and Punishment, without that information it just seems weird.

The dog licked at the pool of blood spreading across the otherwise pristine hardwood floor. He was so hungry and so tired. In life, his master had not taken care of him. It was a strange justice that the dog would eat better with his master dead. Gnawing at the man's exposed foot, the dog proceeded to show him who was the master.

Last Requests

This is an under 75 word story I submitted for an online contest. Before writing it I never realized just how short 75 words is. There will likely be more of these to come, as the site does one of these every month and I find them a healthy exercise in brevity.

The string quartet played on in the corner. Whether they were completely oblivious to, or trying to enhance the panic in the room, I knew not. My drink was empty but the musical rapture carried me beyond sobriety. The rest of the room stared at me as I shouted requests to the cellist, but I saw no harm in it. We were all about to die, the least we could ask for was good music.

Both Earth and Man are Born in Fire

This is essentially the creation story as told by a priest of fire in a short story that is still in progress. The short story connects to Kronicle, (the novel I am also writing) because it is the story of a character who will eventually meet up with the narrator of Kronicle. This story is told to that character when she is feeling depressed. I will post the short story this belongs in when I have finished it but for now here is an excerpt.

“Once, long eons ago, when the world new in its creation, fire ruled the planet. The fire was so hot that the whole Earth burned with it, a smaller flame emulating the Sun. Agnor's strength on this planet was so mighty that no others challenged it. He took this power to the space around him, and his enemies of stone and ice which he saw he burned and added to his strength.

“But soon there were fewer enemies in the Earth's path, and Agnor tired of it. He had almost forgotten it entirely when he was visited by the mysterious father of the gods, Kaos. Kaos promised Agnor that he would be greatly rewarded if he relinquished his fiery grip on Earth, but the fire god was young and headstrong in his own plans of burning Earth to an ash. It was not until Kaos offered Agnor a chance to severely harm his enemy of ice that the fire god accepted. Since he was so mistrusting of Kaos, who is said also to be the father of all lies, he continues to this day to hold on to Earth's core, ready to bathe it all in fire again.

“For many long years the Earth grew steadily colder, and Agnor could feel the chill growing even from the planet's fiery depths. Great quantities of water boldly sat upon Earth's face, and Agnor raged at them from the Earth's core. Eons passed and a thick tangle of plants covered most of the Earth and swam in its water. Eons more and animals came to live in the great oceans of Earth, and then its rich variety of land. Many times the ice god threatened to destroy all the things that lived on Earth, but they were Father Kaos's creatures and he made sure that something survived every time. Eventually the ice and stone gods worked together to hurl a massive frozen boulder at the Earth's face in an attempt to once and for all end life. This impact toppled the order of life on Earth, but so clever are Kaos's plans that the asteroid only played into them, allowing true chaos to spread throughout the world and fulfill the promise made with fire.

“When the icy stone hit the Earth its impact caused a burst of fire which momentarily caused Agnor to again control the planet. Everything above ground perished, and even many in the great oceans were burnt. But deep underground in tunnels they dug with their own claws, our earliest and dimmest ancestors survived the fire and found themselves kings of a new world. It was during this age of fire that man was born into the world.

“As time passed Agnor grew increasingly disappointed with his bargain with Kaos. He had temporarily consumed the planet in flames again, but already the cold crept back onto its surface. All that had changed was the life on the planet. He sought an audience with Kaos to demand an explanation. 'Patience,” Kaos advised the fire god, 'for when I dip my hand in the stream of time, all things are possible.' So again he waited as the forces of the cold and wet built their strength.

“Infuriated by the slow attainment of his promised power on Earth, Agnor retreated to the planet's core to fume. Occasionally he could feel fire on the surface as the skies cast down lightning to burn to the fauna, but even this brought him no pleasure, such was the extent of his anger. He eventually became aware of a prolonged, if not very intense burning on the Earth's surface. Ascending to view the cause of this, Agnor discovered a tree which had apparently been struck by lightning and toppled to the forest floor. The tree was mighty and would surely burn for a long time, but there was an odd activity about the burning tree. Small, hairy creatures were poking at the flames with branches, sometimes accelerating the flames and sometimes dampening them. One of the creatures prodded at the flames until his branch also caught fire. Alarmed, he dropped it to the forest floor where it began to singe other plant life nearby. This greatly lifted the fire god's spirit, for such a curious creature would surely set the world ablaze again, fulfilling Kaos's promise.

“But years passed without the curious creatures reigniting the world. One day, when Agnor was again becoming impatient, Kaos appeared to him and beckoned him to the surface. 'Behold!' spoke the father of gods, 'For today I present to you the product of my interest on Earth. This thing which is the adaptable human will bring fire and chaos to everything they touch for so long as a single one survives.” Agnor looked again upon the curious creatures, and was unimpressed. Before he could voice his displeasure, however, one of the furry things started smashing rocks together while yelling at a small pile of sticks. To Agnor's amazement, this action eventually resulted in the creation of a small fire.

“'With your blessing, these people will live always with fire in their hearts,' spoke Kaos. 'It will pump through their veins so that they both create and destroy with it. It will bring them to new worlds, and they will always bring it with them. With these people you can melt your icy foe, for the cold has always been their enemy. Protect them and they will go far.' And so with the blessing of Agnor, mankind has survived and thrived, though we never forget our allegiance to the fire."

Kronicle

This is the first 2 chapters of what I am hoping will be a lengthy (series?) sci-fi/fantasy novel, entitled Kronicle. I am always thinking about this story and adding to it, so I hope to be regularly updating this post when I find the material workable.

Copyright 2011 Chris Griglack

I - Rude Awakening

If you were asked on your death bed if there was a single moment in your life which defined your existence, could you answer?

There was a time when I thought the question ludicrous. When I thought single moments meaningless, and all of existence a complex pattern of variables. When you spend so much time looking at the world as a beautiful tapestry, it's hard to focus on a single thread.

No one is more haunted by their past than someone who has had six centuries to dwell on it. The longer you live the more you're able to see how your mistakes affected the rest of the world. That's probably why I took the job in the first place, to remove myself from the pattern. To be one of the people who doesn't try to shape the world.

* * *

Standard contracts for chroniclers involve a seven year trial period. If the candidate shows prowess at the job, the contract is extended to a full seven century position. The trial period is an absolute must to determine eligibility, as many cannot deal with the requirements of the job. The job comes with very little perks, the most obvious of which is the immortality granted to those under contract. We neither age nor get sick till the day we resign or are killed. We are able to teleport to any location we can think of, though the limitations of our contracts prevent us from abusing this power.

The job can be extremely demanding. For one thing, no chronicler is allowed to influence events, no matter how trivial they may seem. The sole purpose is to record history as impartially as possible. As inglorious as regular historians may seem, we are their never seen or heard of brethren. For all the important events we record, we never receive credit and our work is seldom seen by mortals. Our work is endlessly analyzed by those with similar contracts and less ground-rules, but few outside the business know we exist.

So for six hundred years I tirelessly agreed not to interact in human affairs, but simply record them as a scientist would the interactions of his lab rats. It is not my job to instigate or quell the cycles which result in wars, uprisings, or social revolutions, only to watch and write them down.

After the first century the novelty of immortality gives way to the infinite loneliness of observing but not partaking in society. Another century passes and this too fades when you realize that order is apparent in all the seemingly random events. That few are destined for greatness, few for infamy, and the majority for nothing other than a blip in the countless record books. That the human race endlessly tries to shape the world around it, and is instead shaped itself is the despair of our species.

While it is the job of the analysts to interpret the events and how they fit into the bigger picture, any chronicler worth his weight can see that the patterns are there no matter how hard we try to avoid them.

So as I neared the end of my first contract, I debated the values of renewing it. Another seven centuries of recording the human race's failure to conquer its animal instincts, or the peaceful quietness of death after a long, meaningless life? Such was my dilemma when the option that broke all the rules was introduced to me.

* * *

I had spent the night the same way I had every other for the past 650 years; combing through the stories of people who otherwise would not be mentioned in any historical records. Every word spoken and its impact. Every miniscule action and its result. Every seemingly important decision and how they culminated in no change for the human race. It was days like this that I simultaneously longed for and mourned the simple human interaction that I had denied myself so long ago.

They all thought it meant something, but it didn't.

I always started recording at noon and submitted my reports at midnight. My own cycle was rushed, and considerately sloppy compared to other chroniclers, but it gave me time to do what I did best: observe.

It's one thing to observe and report from an unbiased scientific point of view, but quite another to watch and feel a disjointed connection with those you watch.

My normal routine involved sitting on the streets disguised as the homeless and watching them interact. Noting every emotional response to the simple events which would in no way affect the pattern. A man's tired footsteps as he walked back to his empty apartment to rest before another grueling shift at his dead-end job. A woman's joy as she steps off her bus to find her family waiting to escort her home. The prostitutes' fear that tonight they wouldn't meet their quota. The policeman's reverent jubilation in knowing that the troublemakers they busted would be off the streets the next day.

As a bum, no one hides their emotions from you. Who cares if the homeless man judges you on your way to score drugs, or smiles at you as you hail a taxi to visit your wife at the hospital? They all pass you by, rarely noticing, never caring.

It was nearing four in the morning when the defining moment of my life literally struck me. A skinny youth in jeans and a dark hoodie approached me. At first I thought he just happened to be moving past me like everyone else, but as he neared he slowed. He was eying me with interest, not the normal dismissive glances I was so accustomed to receiving.

I quickly stood and was about to return to my nook in the record vault when I heard the sharp ringing of change being thrown down on the sidewalk behind me. My mistake was turning back to observe the boy's emotions. I had been out of touch with humanity for so long that I could not resist seeing how I would affect this young man's emotions. Even such a small emotion as a feeling of social responsibility appealed to me, and I thought “What harm could there be in humoring this feeling?”

As I turned to pick up the change, the boy loomed over me, watching but not saying anything. The 79 cents he tossed down was a ridiculously small amount, but I accepted it on the premise that he would feel better about himself. I stood to thank the boy, and as I did the knife flashed in his hand, piercing my left kidney and glancing off my pelvis, leaving a gaping hole and a shallow cut.

I fell to the curb and tried to grasp his leg to pull myself up, but he kicked me off and took a step back so that he was no longer in reach. He leaned down to inspect his work. In a calm, steady voice he said the first thing in nearly 700 years that I could not make sense of: “Tell him I said 'Check.'” With this he walked away, into the night, never to be seen again.

As I lay bleeding on the sidewalk, the only thought I was able to process was that my decision had been made for me. Someone would take my place, chronicling human history, and they too would eventually grow tired of the position. One by one my senses failed me as I slipped into the welcome darkness of what I assumed to be be death.

* * *

Home is where the heart is.

After nearly 700 years everything that could have changed about the place had. Still, some part of me buried deep inside remembered it as home.

I awoke, clutching the hole in my side in the pawn shop which now stood on the site of my birth. An aging, heavy set man yelled at me to get lost from behind the shop's counter. Seeing that I had no intention of moving myself, he approached me with an air of one who was quite capable at forcefully removing unwanted guests. As he grabbed the arm I was using to try to keep my blood from leaking out, he noticed the wound and released my arm, causing me to fall back into a heap on the floor.

I mentioned that the job comes with a few perks. Teleporting is one them, though technically its only supposed to be used to avoid interfering with the pattern. If this had been a conscious effort and not the flailing of a dying man, I might have picked a better location.

The shop's owner babbled something at me while scrambling back and forth across the small width of the dirty room. I felt myself slipping back into the darkness again, but right before I completely faded out, a vision of James appeared in front of me.

My son put his hands on his knees as he leaned down to study my face. His straight dirty-blonde hair hung down past sparse freckles to shroud his whole face above the mouth. The mouth displayed a wide grin which was entirely soured when he swept the hair to the side to show glaring eyes. He was wearing the same clothes as when I had last seen him; the sweat-soaked and mud-splattered denim overalls he wore while tending the field.

“Well looky here,” he drawled, all the while staring into my eyes and smirking as I desperately struggled to maintain consciousness. “Guess we 'bout to have a family reunion! Ya gon' stay for drinks this time? Me 'n Henry, we're settled.”

I had grown accustomed to the wetness of blood spilling from the wound I was clutching, but as an immensely strong wave of blackness swept over me, I dimly felt the blood stop flowing. The room spun wildly as my eyes rolled back into my head, but not before I caught one last glimpse of James, fool's grin vanishing from his face as he rose to stand over me. “You got debts to pay,” he spoke so solemnly, almost reverently. A tear ran down my cheek, and I remember inwardly laughing at myself at the thought that my body had stopped producing blood but could muster a tear. (Recounting this, I realize that the true joke was not my body's last ditch emotional response, but that after centuries of life, this was almost my last thought.)

Just before the this time unwelcome blackness rushed through my mind, I felt a tugging sensation in the deepest recesses of my mind. Before so much as a single neuron could fire in my brain, the dark plague of unconsciousness swept over me once again.

* * *

When I awoke I was in the familiar confines of the Ever-Stable Citadel, or Rock Steady, as we chroniclers endearingly referred to it.

The Citadel is the God of Time's mortal headquarters on Earth. No human knows its true location, making teleportation the only way in or out. My friend Nekket, one of the oldest chroniclers having survived the reign of some long-forgotten Egyptian pharaoh, has theorized wildly on the subject of Rock Steady's location. Sometimes he'll suggest we're in the center of an enormous mountain, or buried deep beneath the earth, or undersea, or not even on Earth at all.

Wherever the location, the Ever-Stable Citadel is exactly what it claims to be. No time passes for those within the Citadel. There are even networks of rooms in which one may remain for what feels like eternity, but when you leave, not a moment has passed outside the Citadel. Because of this, many of those who work for the God of Time work in the past, and have not caught up with reality. The building itself has remained unaltered for all of eternity as far as anyone knows, only those inside change. Whenever I try to rationalize the place's workings, I can't help but admire Nekket's perseverance in chasing the secrets of the Citadel after countless centuries. Surely any other man would have gone insane after so many years of frustration.

I was in one of the Rock's smaller rooms, brilliantly clean metal walls reflected the room's single small light millions of times over until it resembled the summer sun. Several gleaming metal cabinets lined the walls. The room was bare save for the cot on which I lay and the IV which stood guard nearby.

I sat up, and was amazed to find no pain in my side. If I didn't know who I was working for I'd have thought I died and somehow gone to an industrialized heaven. I tugged up the thin, plastic feeling fabric of the hospital gown I had on, and examined my side where I had been stabbed. Where the gash had been, there now stood a faded jagged scar that looked to be several years old. As I was inspecting the rest of myself for new scars the room's only door opened, and one of the Citadel's many Eternal Priests entered.

The Eternal Priests are a strange sect within the otherwise flawlessly mechanical operations of the God's mortal headquarters. Their purpose is unknown to the other workers, but whatever task they are given they perform as all priests should: reverently. The many workers within the citadel are networked together in a clear hierarchy based on the importance of their positions. Chroniclers collect data which is given to analysts to interpret, and is eventually used by the rarely seen Shapers. The Shapers have their own hierarchy which none of us below them understands, but their purpose is to fix the few flaws which occur in the pattern. Somehow, the priests have more authority within the Citadel than the Shapers, and they never hesitate to use it. Their loyalty and devotion to their unknown cause is fearsome, and they act as if they are the most crucial part of the process. Nekket once told me that they weren't much better than infernal priests. He meant it as a joke but the way he kept looking around before he rapidly blurted it out diminished the effect.

“I see you are fully operational again,” the priest spoke as if he was fully in control of the situation. His loose white robe concealed his figure, but his uncovered face was that of a thin, elderly white male. Small bifocals hung far down his long nose, which when combined with the few wild tufts of gray hair that still remained on his head, gave him a bird-like appearance. The robe's only adornment was a ball of gray with several colored sinuous lines emanating from it. This was displayed over the priest's heart and though I did not know its meaning, few of the priests I had seen had any sort of emblem on their pure white robes, so I assumed him to be high ranking within their order.

“Yes, sir. I'm ready to catch up on whatever reports I've missed.” This was meant to be a quick get-in, get-out response. I rose from the table, searching for clothes, but the priest's next words made me halt.

“Your reports are being taken care of.”

“Am I fired?”

“You are being given a vacation.” I thought he was joking, but the look on his face was entirely serious. I waited and a long silent moment passed before he continued, sounding annoyed that this was proving so difficult. “We would not fire you for being victimized.” He paused again, looking disappointed with how this sounded. “If we no longer desired your employment we would simply have let you die.” He looked satisfied with that.

“I've never heard of anyone getting a vacation here before.”

“Most of the workers are better at staying alive than you are.”

“How long do I have off?”

“You get a week, then back to work. Same rules apply as when you're working but you don't have to report.”

“Got it.” I couldn't do much with those restrictions, but I figured the vacation might help me sort out my contract dilemma. My mind was already drifting that way when the priest interrupted the thought by placing his bony hands on my shoulders. I looked at him, and his eye twitched faintly as he tried to add even more serious tones to his face.

“He wants to see you before you leave.”

“Who?” I couldn't stop the question from getting out in time. The priest looked horrified, then rapidly drew a symbol in front of my face. I cringed at first, not understanding his gesture, which led to even more frantic hand gestures.

“The Boss?” This question was just to verify. I had never actually met the God of Time. Even my initial job offer and training were carried out by people far down the chain of command.

“The Lord Kronic.” The priest's regained expression of severity was replaced for a moment by one of bliss.

“Why? Where is he? How do I get there? Why me?” The questions rolled out one on top of the other. The priest shook his head and waited for me to finish before answering with mother-like patience.

“Just think of the Lord of Time and you will appear before him. You have only been permitted this honor this one time, of course. There are clothes in the largest cabinet, I suggest you put them on before you visit Him.”

I nodded my head dumbly and walked towards the cabinet, lost in thought. The priest opened the door, but turned back to me before leaving. He cleared his throat until he had my attention, and I turned holding up a blue cotton shirt that was now looked much bigger than it had neatly folded. “Don't let it happen again,” he said gravely.

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I once again just nodded my head until he departed, leaving me that extra mystery on top of all the others I had already. Had the man been referring to my accidental blasphemy? The reprimand had sounded more serious, as if the priest had been scolding me for almost dying. I reminded myself to tell Nekket about this so we could have a laugh about it later. A very quiet, nervous laugh.

I dressed in a pair of dark blue slacks and a gray long-sleeved shirt I found hidden towards the bottom of the pile of clothes. I quickly reexamined the scar and was once again disturbed by its aged look. I would have to ask the Boss how long I had been healing if I got a word in.

Sighing, I sat back down on the cot closed my eyes and relaxed my mind until there was only one thought left.

Time to see the Boss.

II – Higher Power

Without opening my eyes I could tell I was no longer in the same room in which I had awakened. I could feel a slight breeze, the air quality was unlike any other I had experienced. Each breath that entered my lungs brought with it an overwhelming sensation of cleanliness. I felt, quite literally, reborn with every breath, the memories and emotions which had been brewing for centuries receding to the deepest crevasses of the mind.

“I see you're enjoying the sanctity of this place. It pleases me to allow mortals to experience the unrefined purity of creation every once in a while,” the voice was melodic. Though there was no rhythm to the spoken words, it gave the impression of an entire choir singing rather than a single speaker.

I opened my eyes only to find nothing but brilliant white light all around me. I could see no ground below me, and when my mind proceeded to follow this line of thought, I became increasingly worried that I could not actually feel the ground either. The entire effect was unsettling, so I closed my eyes and forced myself to take deep breaths in a vain attempt to ignore the constant spinning sensation and building nausea.

“The scenery takes some getting used to, I'm afraid. The trick for humans is just to relax and not think about it. I could create a background for you if you think it might help.” Without opening my eyes, I nodded my head weakly. The light my eyelids failed to block out suddenly faded without a sound. The air did feel a bit different, so I decided to risk opening my eyes again.

The scene that greeted me was the vast black canvas of outer space. Stars sparkled in the distance, and I thought I saw the dim outlines of planets and asteroids as the slowly orbited around their focal points. The gasp that was my immediate reaction served as a heartwarming reassurance that I was surrounded by breathable air.

The light immediately around me intensified, providing a brief view of several small twinkling shaped hurtling through the darkness between the stars. Turning to identify the source of this illumination, I found myself mere miles away from the orange glow of a star.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the briefest glimpse of a receding solar flare which must have been the cause of the brightening. I marveled for a moment as the massive plume of fire withdrew into the writhing sea of shifting flames before me. The only thought left in my mind was the observation that the whole thing was eerily quiet. There was no crackling or any other sort of noise that I had come to associate with material burning.

The silence was finally interrupted when my nausea caught up to me and I dropped to my knees to vomit. I noticed that while my knees struck something hard, allowing me to fall to them in the first place, my vomit sailed off into space below me as if just a small, disgusting asteroid. As I picked myself up, spat, and wiped my mouth on the sleeve of shirt which had recently been given me, the silence was broken again, this time by my intangible host.

“We are not so different, you and I.”

This comment was so different from anything I had anticipated, (though in truth I had completely forgotten about the Time God's presence, and therefore not anticipated anything) that I was thrown completely by it. “Wh-?” Was all I could manage to say, and I am still unsure what I would have eventually stumbled upon if I was able to voice the mass confusion of thoughts running through my head.

He interrupted me with an enormous gale of laughter, causing me enough confusion and anxiety to wreck my train of thought. When his laughter finally died down, his voice was still gleeful as he spoke. “Relax! It was a joke! One I thought you would appreciate.”

At this point I was thoroughly confused and could only reply “No. No... Sir?” My voice was weak and I thought I could feel that dazed look on my face which always appeared when I wanted to scream “What the hell is going on?”

He only chuckled briefly at my confusion, but it was nothing like the monstrous laughter of the moment before. “Address me however you want, but decide on something quickly. Time constrains even me.”

Again I was stupefied in a rush to think so many different things at once. Eventually, one got through, and I was left with the single thought of “How the hell would one address a formless god?”

“You wanted to see me, sir?” The words eventually tumbled form my mouth on top of each other.

“Well that hardly needed asking, did it? Calm yourself. You are not in trouble, I simply want to ask you what you remember about your... accident,” the word “accident” did not flow out with the rest of his words but came after, a straggler apart from the flock. It made me think he suspected me of intentionally getting stabbed. This reminded me of the priest's warning to not let it happen again. Did they really think I had gotten myself stabbed intentionally?

“Well...” I began, and proceed to tell him everything I could remember, glossing over some of the finer details. When I got to the incident itself he interrupted me.

“So, this stranger just walked up to you, stabbed you, and walked away?”

“He said some nonsense before he walked away, sir. Typical crazy person.”

“What did he say?” He sounded suddenly interested in what I had to say.

The moments right before and after the stabbing were a bit fuzzy to me. Even when your body is miraculously healed, the mind tries to pretend the whole thing never really happened. “He said 'tell him' ... something,” I struggled to remember. Part of the difficulty was that what I thought he said was complete nonsense. At the time I was more concerned with not bleeding out on the sidewalk than with trying to comprehend what my assailant had said.

“Tell him what?” Prompted the god. No concern with who the message was intended for.

“'Tell him' … 'I said “check.”' That's it, I'm sure of it.” A long pause followed in which I guessed he was trying to understand the cryptic gibberish.

“Sir?” I hesitantly asked, sure for a moment that I had been abandoned to float forever in the emptiness of this not quite space.

“Are you still here?” He sounded annoyed, like he had been deep in thought and I had interrupted him, which was very likely the case, I realized with a shameful blush.

“I don't know how to leave,” I regretted the answer immediately, but it slipped out before I could think about it.

“You use the door, of course,” it was obviously a joke, but unlike the last one, all the good humor had gone out of his disembodied voice.

Despite his obvious irritability, I decided to ask a question of my own. After all, he had trapped me in a strange parody of space and questioned me.

“Lord,” I began, hoping this title would coax a straightforward answer out of him. “What's the whole point?” I asked him. It was the question that had been on my mind for centuries. “Life, I mean. Why are we all here?”

“Ahhh the age old question. I have to admit, I was expecting something more original from you, but what can you do? Since you asked though, it's all about testing mankind's willingness to circumvent small bodies of water.”

“What,” was my only response. His answer had thrown me a bit off-guard so that for the moment it was all I could do to think of what a body of water was while all the profound reasons for human existence fled my mind.

“You know, puddles and the like. At what point will a person expend an effort to go around and when will they simply give up and walk right through? Fascinating stuff, though I'm ashamed to admit we still don't have a formula for it yet.”

“Another joke, then? That's all that life is to you?” His inability to answer even a single basic question was beginning to infuriate me.

“Certainly not! Jokes have a purpose; you tell one to make someone else laugh. There is no reason for the existence of the human race. No purpose that you were created with the intent of fulfilling. You simply are, thanks largely to an oversight on my own part,” this last part came as a sort of fast mumble, but the voice representing my god was quickly past it and on to different subject matter. “But I am here now to make sure you can fit in snugly with the rest of the universe. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“I think my curiosity has been more or less killed at this point.” Until this point I had hoped against hope that there was something my species was meant to do in the universe. Otherwise why have all the chroniclers taking notes?

Depressed, I turned to leave before realizing that I had no idea how to escape my current environment. Turning back I ventured a hesitant, “Is there anything else, sir?” and hoped that the response would not contain any other philosophy-destroying statements.

“Remember, you are on vacation,” came the disembodied voice from all angles at once. “Try not to stress yourself. I'd say engage in a hobby, but clearly your extracurricular activities are of a questionable nature that always ends in great pain for you. So for the extent of your vacation, do something that does not interest you in the slightest. This should exclude all such activity.” I thought about this for a bit, and decided I'd best just continue doing my job as if I weren't on vacation. No other chronicler had been hurt during work as far as I knew. It was possibly the least interactive job that had ever been created, and so therefore was likely to keep me out of trouble for at least a couple more weeks.

I nodded dumbly, and because I was not sure if he could pick up on this signal, threw in a quick “sure thing boss.” I sensed a sort of satisfaction in the air, an overwhelming feeling of mission accomplished. Again I turned to leave, expecting to now find a doorway of some sort in my path, but there was no such thing. Space continued endlessly on before me in every direction I turned until I stamped my foot in frustration and mumbled some choice curses (or prayers considering their divine orientation) under my breath.

It was during the peak of my frustration, when I was about to raise my voice to again address the god of time, that I was whisked unceremoniously back to the room in the Citadel where I had so recently awakened.

Imprisonment of the Mind

He could feel his headache grow as he walked down the crowded city street to his cheap apartment. They always started like a cloud of smoke in the very back of his head. When he felt them coming on he would do every mental exercise Dr. Thornston taught him. When these failed, as they always did, he would change to the tactic he had grown up with: unleashing a stream of threats and curses that made every person turn his way as he walked past.

The Cloud of pain was reaching his temples, where he knew it would soon evolve into stabbing needles of pain. He kept walking: had to make it back to the apartment where he could lie down and sleep it off. They said there would probably be some minor headaches when he signed up, but for Christ's sake, this pain was unbearable. It was not the standard headache borne of stress and weariness. It felt as if his brain was growing while his head remained the same size.

He had already taken 4 patches of aspirin, twice the recommended dosage, but he stopped briefly on the dirty corner and pulled the box out of his jacket pocket. Rolling up the faded brown sleeve of his polyester jacket, he slapped two more patches onto his left arm. Thousands of tiny needles sank into his pale flesh, each delivering a miniscule dose of weak painkiller.

The Cloud, seeming threatened by the medicine, advanced its position. From his cerebellum it crept around the perimeter of his cerebral hemisphere, oozing into the very center of his mind.

The doctors had pointed at the charts and diagrams of the brain, explaining the procedure in a language that required at least ten years of higher education to understand. All this was meant to assure him that they knew what they were doing. In theory at least.

Of course, this procedure had never been performed on a human before.

The government had hired some of the world's best neurosurgeons to attempt what they called the greatest breakthrough in the study of the human mind. And of course West himself was being very well compensated for the use of his brain.

The goal was theoretically simple: connect the consciousness of one person into the sensory input of another. This would allow the person who's consciousness had been transferred to experience everything their host experienced, but not be able to control the body. The government was funding the program because they had high hopes that it could reduce the severely high prison population. If a convicted criminal could simply have their consciousness transferred out of their body, the government could drastically cut back on prison funding, as the criminal's physical bodies could be piled into a single room and fed intravenously. With this method there was no risk of riots, breakouts, or fights among the inmates, and therefore no need to hire guards to risk their lives taking care of society's worst.

But, the operation had failed. The doctors claimed that while the transfer was unsuccessful, no permanent damage was done to West's brain.

The prisoner's consciousness was irrecoverable, however, since the surgeons had removed the section of the prisoner's brain which contained his consciousness and rudely shoved it into West's own head. Room was made to accommodate for this, there were apparently many parts of his brain that West never used and were therefore completely expendable.

It had been a week since the surgery and West felt no different, aside from the headaches. Though he had returned to the doctors after the first one had passed, they assured him that they were only temporary and would soon fade away. Much like with other transplants, it takes time for the host's body to fully accept the alien tissue. In this case they claimed, his body had accepted the transfer willingly, but his delicate mind was still struggling to deal with the shock of having the additional, unused processing power of an entire new consciousness. They said this all with sad expressions, as if telling a sick puppy that it would get better even though you know it can't understand you.

His body had closed the distance to his apartment while he had been thinking, and now he keyed into the building and walked down the long, poorly lit hallway towards his room, all the while holding the sides of his head in an attempt to keep it from exploding. As he staggered into his room he noticed the blinking red light on his phone, new messages. Ignoring it, he stumbled to the bathroom and opened the mirror, revealing a large collection of pills, patches, syrups, and sprays.

Most were legal over-the-counter medicines. Some were given out only on prescriptions which he did not have. A few lurking in the back were downright illegal. Things which the FDA had deemed unsafe after a short trial period, or which never even made it past experimental stages. It was a bottle of this sort that he reached for, knocking over several others with his trembling hands. This particular pill had promised to be the cure for insomnia, the perfect sleeping pill. It was too perfect, actually, as a short time on the market revealed. Taking it with any amount of alcohol quickly induced an almost coma-like sleep.

Freeing a pill from the bottle, and opening a flask of whiskey, he moved to his bedroom, prepared to sleep off the headache. He popped the pill in is mouth, took a swig of the whiskey and collapsed before he could so much as remove his jacket.

* * *

When he awoke, the headache had disappeared entirely. He felt incredibly groggy though, almost unwilling to wake up. Wondering how long he had slept, he turned to look at the LED clock on the nightstand next to his bed.
His body did not respond.

West panicked. He tried to open his eyes, but the world remained dark. He tried to yell but no sound came from his mouth.

The pills, he thought. That's what happens when you take black market medicine for the side effects. He was wondering how long his body could survive by itself in a coma when his thoughts were interrupted by an eruption of light.

As his vision adjusted, he recognized the blurry scene of his room. Yawning and stretching his arms, his body sat up and cleared its throat, mumbling sleep half-dream thoughts.

He watched all this with horror, as he realized someone else now had control of his body.

Eyes still only half open, he walked to the bathroom and emptied his bladder. On his way out, whoever was in control of his body noticed the open cabinet and the bottles of pills scattered about. He inspected every bottle, carefully reading the labels, sometimes smirking at the names or effects of the various drugs. Whenever he came across an interesting looking one he would place it in one of the jacket's many pockets, for later recreational use West could only assume. When the ones he decided not to take were all safely back on the shelves, he closed the cabinet door and jumped at West's reflection in the mirror.

Staring at the mirror, his body soon began to run his hands over his face to confirm the reflection. The pointy chin and sunken gray eyes that were West's most notable features. Sparse freckles on either side of his crooked nose were the only physical manifestations of his Irish ancestry. The hands brushed over the thin, black fuzz that was the remnants of his hair after the surgery. When they found the scar, his head tipped down to angle the area at the mirror. West could see the hideous purple horseshoe shape where his scalp had been peeled back then sewn back together.

“Transfer,” the man in control of his voice whispered, and the sound of West's voice snapped the man out of his thoughts. He straightened his posture and cleared his throat, experimenting with the range his new vocal chords allowed him.

After this warmup he returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed.

“What happened?” West's voice was awkward sounding, and a long, uncomfortable silence followed. That was directed at you. The voice West heard in his head was not at all like his own. It was a low raspy drone of a man just entering the decline of his life. Though he had no image of the man who now controlled his body, he felt the knowing smirk that would be on the man's face if he had the one that matched the voice.

Damned if I know, West thought , but the man seemed not to be able to hear this. You in there? Call was for two of us in here, I believe. Think... forward. Like, push the thought out.

Damned if I know, West thought, following the voice's directions for communitcation. There was no reply, but West could tell it was a calculated silence designed to make him give an explanation, so he told him all he knew.

The operation didn't work. It was a weak explanation, and he knew it as soon as he sent it, but it was all he had. The voice laughed, a cold slimy laugh that gave West the feeling of goosebumps crawling across his skin, though of course his skin did not respond.

Clearly. How come you didn't know how to talk to me? They teach you what to do bout all this?

They said they'd be right there with me if it was successful. But since it failed they didn't wanna tell me anything more than they had to.

So they're done with you know? Cast ya out into the world?

West tried to send an image of himself nodding his head and the man seemed to get it because that laugh came again, grating. Well I'll tell ya what kid, I don't normally do well with commitment but I think it's safe to say that Vin Maloney is gonna be staying here for a LONG time. West's world went black once more as Vin effectively ended the conversation.

* * *

West came to several hours later, and from the glimpses he caught out of Vin's half-lidded eyes, he could see the former prisoner had been busy. Used cans of Warp littered the apartment's living room where he now sat, half sleeping with the television blaring.

West had tried Warp once while he was in high school. The popular recreational drug was originally a market fluke which many took advantage of. Spray cans of a newly developed air freshener were found to emit an incredibly high-pitched frequency that would temporarily alter one's brain if held up to an ear. The air freshener was soon removed from the market, but the cans were studied and reproduced illegally for their bizarre side effect.

The Warp high was the strangest sensation he had ever felt, and not entirely pleasant which is why he had only tried it once. The can's frequency altered brainwaves, making the user feel like they were experiencing something other than what was around them. Many people believe they are seeing or hearing things from another dimension or parallel universe while on Warp.

Assuming he now had some time to think about his current predicament due to Vin's state of mind, West compiled the little information he had. The prisoner had seized his mind somehow, and could apparently knock West out at will. He was clearly better informed on what to expect in this scenario than West, likely having had some mental training in prison before discarding his body. But, if he could grab the controls from the back seat, West at least knew it was possible for him to do the same.

It shouldn't have been possible, though. That was the one worry West had had before signing up for the program, and the doctors had all assured him he would always be in control.

So what went wrong?

There were the headaches, he thought at first. The doctors thought his mind was still trying to reject the transplant, but they also thought Vin didn't make it in. Vin must have been lurking in the back of West's head the whole time, maybe even causing the headaches to weaken West so he could gain control.

Suddenly, West remembered the pill he had taken to relieve his headache. Somehow, he thought, that pill was the key to the whole problem. When he took the pill with alcohol, it must have knocked him out on enough levels to allow Vin to take over. Which meant that if he could get Vin to take one, he could regain control.

West didn't know if Vin had purposely caused the headache he had had earlier, but he was sure as hell going to try to repay the ex-prisoner for his hospitality.

Conjuring up every image of pain and suffering he could think of, West threw them one at a a time towards Vin like they had been communicating before. Fire, sharks, needles, voodoo dolls, knives, guns, stun-guns, poison darts, poison dart frogs, snakes, lasers, searing metal shrapnel raining down with hurricane force. Drowning, a solid kick to the nuts, killer bees, grizzly bears, boiling oil, acid, a plague of locusts devouring Vin's flesh one miniscule bite at a time. Vin did not stir enough from his Warp trip to respond to any of these, though West could have sworn he felt a faint stirring at the locusts.

He had to keep trying, but West's imagination was rapidly failing him. He moved into more obscure realms, digging deep within himself for concepts he found particularly horrifying. Murder, rape, slavery. Genocide, or worse yet, the annihilation of an entire group of people based on unobservable personal belief systems. Rampant famine and easily prevented diseases in impoverished areas while the elite few live a lavish lifestyle of wastefulness. The knowledge that all humans had evolved and would forever continue to evolve around a corrupt system based on greed and personal gain rather than the advancement of the species and the societies which it creates.

West found this last image particularly disturbing, and he could think of no worse thought to use against the trespasser of his mind. Receding to a dark corner of his own mind, he prepared to temporarily surrender to the intruder's way of life.

He was feeling the same hopelessness he had at being pushed through the public school system. Tireless, monotonous, information recited in a never ending litany he could never hope to remember. Different types of math and history, none of which he would ever use after the tests while none of the practical information he craved was ever mentioned. All part of a larger system designed to mold him into an unthinking servant of the majority's will.

Vin more than stirred at West's personal brooding, even though he was not thinking it in the forceful manner they used to communicate. Their shared eyes opened wide, and with a gasping intake of breath, Vin sucked West into the foreign depths of the Warp trip.

Warp gets its name from the rude mental transportation that brings users to their hallucinated destination. West shot pat stars, planets, galaxies at impossible speeds, turning his whole perceived universe into a never-ending blur. Colors and shapes all morphed into a single streak of energy as he continued to accelerate. Soon he was moving fast enough to exit the realm of physical energy and enter the higher order of conception and perception.

West finally found himself on alien territory populated by the chaos of the thoughts he had used against Vin. Bees, sharks, and grizzly bears fought for control of land and population, never realizing that their war was meaningless entertainment to the man who oversaw the whole thing.

The face that hung in the sky was god-like. Penetrating dark brown eyes shadowed by graying bushy eyebrows. A large, bulbous nose hung out over a mouth with an ever present smirk, safely cushioned in a landscape of brown facial hair. Short, dark hair with a streak of gray arcing back from the left temple. Vin's face was exactly how West had pictured it upon first hearing his voice.

The god-face vanished suddenly, and the man himself was soon standing in front of West, close enough to be threatening, but far enough away that he did not immediately provoke physical conflict. “The muse meets his creations and frowns upon them,” he said gesturing to the war raging around them, the smirk never faltering. “I was growing bored with my own creations in here, but you made things very interesting, I must say.”

West said nothing, but simply stared defiantly at his captor. Any doubt he had before regarding Vin's sanity was now removed. The man was surely mad to be enjoying such chaotic dystopia.

“Math class though?” The smirk briefly gave way to a slight frown, every bit as mocking. “Not quite as thrilling a toy as the rest of them.” He casually touched his left temple where the streak of gray seemed to appear. As he did this, West could see the creases in his face tighten, and with a start he realized there was a twinge of pain in that gesture.

“Not toys,” he said, grasping for anything that might upset the convict. “Much as I hated it, there was one thing I learned from history class all those years ago. Education and the trial and error process are the only things which will someday relieve us of the constant repetition of humanity's worst crimes. The cycle can be ended, if not for men like you who perpetuate the errors of the past.” West could see that despite his brave facade, Vin was certainly losing patience with him. The criminal lowered his head for a moment, and West could see the gray streak was wrapping around the base of Vin's skull to curve around to the other temple.

The Cloud, West realized. This was his chance to knock his captor off-balance. As a criminal with apparent psychotic tendencies, Vin delighted in the things West had considered torment, but the knowledge of greater issues pained him.

“Communication is the problem,” West quickly continued, drawing on a lecture from a particularly unexciting sociology class he had taken. “Instead of communicating your wants to others, you have taken it upon yourself to seize the things you want from those who lack the power to do anything about it.” The streak was definitely growing, creeping up around Vin's right ear like a vine. He raised his head to glare at West, and the animals in the background paused their fighting for a moment to study their creators before halfheartedly resuming the strife.

“Enough,” grunted Vin. “I get it. The world would be such a nice perfect place if not for people like myself.” He waved his hand and the whole scene grew fuzzy, dissipating into a bright light while the buzzing of the killer bees was magnified a thousand times over. All this happened in a moment, but not before West saw that the Cloud had completed its circuit around the perimeter of Vin's brain. The gray was rapidly becoming a shocking bright white which now climbed steadily to the crown of the man's head. West knew that soon enough it would begin the piercing dive into every level of his captor's consciousness.

The two men found themselves back in their body in West's apartment. Vin reached up with West's hand to massage his temples and knuckle his forehead. He finally got up off the couch to down the remainder of West's supply of cheap whiskey. Finding this equally ineffective in dealing with the headache, he stumbled to the bathroom and the mirror cabinet which held West's stash of drugs.

He tried every headache relief and pain killer he could find before finally reaching for the bottle that would put him to sleep. West's heart would have been pounding in anticipation if it were properly responding to him. But it wasn't, and therefore there were nothing to give away his plan.

Not knowing what to expect, and having consumed a great deal more alcohol before taking the pill than West had, Vin did not even make it out of the bathroom before being knocked unconscious.

It was terribly easy for West to probe his way into his own nervous system. First he could smell the alcohol on his own breath, then taste it in the back of his mouth. Vision was somewhat harder to obtain because his eye were closed and he could not yet open them. Finally he discerned that he had wormed his way into sight when he noted the reappearance of the floating spots that plagued the corners of his vision. He heard the water running in the sink, and finally could feel the cold tiles of the bathroom floor pressed against his face.

Upon regaining control of his nervous system, West was swept up in the thunderstorm of blackness which was the pill's terrifying power.

* * *

When he awoke after two days of unconsciousness, the first thing he did was walk back to the doctor's office where the surgery had been performed. He told the doctors his story, all the while they took notes and muttered “Of course!” at inappropriate times. Finally they performed another surgery on him, this one designed to undo the damage they had done.

As they gassed him for the surgery West could hear the mad ramblings of his tormenter's last thoughts.

Perpetuating cycle of error. Consequences of the past mean nothing to those who look only to the future. Communication does not truly exist without trust, and human greed dissolves trust. Societies are built on lies and greed, and everyday the corruption is introduced as necessary to the next generation. Our subservience to chaos and dystopia are the only factors which differentiate us from animals.

You're wrong. West thought back at him as the cold blackness of sleeping gas crept around the edges of his vision. Every day of human history moves the species further. Animals wait for the future and accept the changes it will bring. Humans reach into the future to alter the present and leave accounts of their lives so that future generations may learn from their mistakes. Every success and every failure in human history is one step closer to utopia.

As his hate for the monster who had taken over his body was replaced with pity, West embraced the world and the people who inhabited it. He embraced the doctors who had messed up the operation. He embraced the government who funded the program, another failed solution to a problem that humans would not give up on. Finally, for the last time, he embraced the gas's blackness, not knowing where it would take him, but knowing that somehow humanity would find a way to learn from his experiences.

Oubliette

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Human Spirit

The Call was upon him now. Feeling the spirit which first drove man to stand upright and roar in defiance at the heavens, he regained his feet and tightened the helmet on his head. Only seconds ago he wept for his life. Now the sheer emotional exhaustion drained from him, and was replaced by the golden light of valor and purpose. For a moment he gazed at the Sun in the sky, drinking in its beauty and wondering at the complexities of the universe. But the moment soon ended. Sighting the Sun with the length of the sword he now gripped firmly in his hand, he let forth a cry and charged into the frothing tide of oncoming enemies.

Ideal State

This was the final project for a philosophy class I took which covered The Republic. The teacher wanted us to lay out our ideal society in some form other than a report so mine is a fake anthropologist's description of a perfect society which he recently encountered.

Throughout my long career as an anthropologist I have traveled the globe in order to see the world from as many cultural perspectives as possible. All this time I have tried to remain unbiased and scholarly when entering in to a new culture, but after my decade-long excursion to the island kingdom of Eumetis I can accurately declare that there exists a society which is superior to all others. As a cultural anthropologist with over 40 years' worth of field experience, I tell you there is no other place on Earth which breeds the values of freedom and intellectualism equal to Eumetis.
The underlying foundation on which this utopia of intellect was devised is the principle that proper education and upbringing is the key to unlocking the potential of future generations. With this goal in mind, Eumetis's legendary founder Tate set out to devise an education system that would allow children to critically analyze and interpret the events of their daily lives, making them unknowingly add to their own educations with every passing thought. Eumetis's education system starts teaching children at the age of four with lesson plans similar to those of private schools in the United States or Britain, but also includes a heavy emphasis on music appreciation and performance. At the age of six the children continue their educations, but with an added emphasis on physical art and reading and writing skills. At this age children are taught to read with allegories which promote learning and free thought as well as the basic moral principles which parents are indebted to teach to children at home.
Moral values are taught to the children both at home and in early schooling with these allegories, and every child must pass a test of situations in which morals are examined (sort of like a Choose-Your-Own Allegory) in order to complete their basic education. Children who do not pass this test are psychologically examined and asked why they responded as they did. The psychologist may then pass the child upon completing the evaluations, or send the child to be re-educated in moral values and made to re-take the test.
One allegory that is children learn when learning to read is about a city that thought it was so smart, that they kicked out all the craftsmen and laborers. The citizens of this imaginary city are industrious and invent many new and wonderful things, but they quickly run out of food and clothes. When winter comes around, they have nobody to build the efficient new power plants they designed, and nobody to run the old ones which were at least satisfactory enough to provide light and heat. The moral of this story is that all cities are built from the ground up, and when the workers on the bottom are removed, those on the top will fall with them.
Another allegory that is taught at the same age teaches them not to cheat or take credit for another's work. The story is about a child who completes his education by copying the work of others and eventually earns a well-respected position in the field of nuclear physics with his colleague who was unknowingly cheated off of. Once day when his colleague is out, a major meltdown occurs and the cheater is unable to do anything to stop it, causing the deaths of thousands of people. The moral of this story is that every position comes with responsibility, and it is dangerous to everyone for an individual to have responsibilities for which they are not qualified.
At the age of seven the Eumetis educational system begins to differ from those of “civilized” societies. Basic math is introduced to the children and a heavy emphasis is placed on reading and writing skills both in school and at home, culminating in the a majority children's ability to read at an advanced level by the end of the year. At eight years old children are taught critical analysis and interpretation of literature and strongly encouraged to view the music and art they have learned until then with the same techniques. Throughout the whole year of which a child is nine, he will learn very little of what is considered practical knowledge. Instead he will learn to question all the knowledge he has and will learn through the use of logic and rationality, in addition to rhetoric so he can better communicate. By the age of ten, Eumetian children are able to reason and debate rationally better than the majority of American college students.
From the age of 10 until 16, education of music, art, and literature decreases, that of critical analysis and logic remain constant, and more and more emphasis is placed on math, sciences, geometry, geography, and physics each year. At 16 children must pass both a standardized education test, and perform satisfactory on a ethics exam to graduate. Upon graduation children are free to decide whether they will continue their formal education in specific areas, or take up a trade as a profession in order to benefit the community. While heavy emphasis is placed on education and intellect in all of Eumetian society, many children who enjoy using their hands for art and music in school become fine craftsmen, able to turn even the simplest of commodities in to art. Those that choose to be craftsmen train for an additional four to ten years under masters of the craft before they are considered true craftsmen. At this point they are accepted in to the guild of their chosen profession and given the same social status as members of academic guilds.
Those that chose to continue their formal education find themselves introduced to the world's greatest community of scholars and teachers. Until the age of 20 they undergo general academic training in a wide variety of fields in order to determine which path to follow. In some cases, especially gifted individuals may be asked by a guild to study mainly in their field of expertise, and the four year period is lessened. Once a particular field is chosen, individuals study in this field an additional five to 20 years depending on their level of intelligence and educational goals. After this time they are considered official members of an academic guild. In Eumetian society a member of a guild is considered an expert in their field and holds high social status. One step above guild members, however, are the masters of the guild whose job it is to manage the affairs of the entire guild and represent them in the senate. These masters are generally very experience in their trade since they have practiced it so long. They take on the responsibilities of the guild in addition to their regular duties as a practitioner of the skill. Each guild is entitled to make its own laws regarding the election of guild masters, but many appoint masters or hold elections within the guild.
One step on the social ladder above guild masters are those that no longer practice their profession, but teach it to the apprentices. These very experienced teachers are relieved of the responsibilities of practicing their craft so that they may devote all of their time to their students' education. Teachers are given such high status because they pass on not only the standard practices of the profession, but also first-hand accounts of real world experiences. Teachers have very little actual power in the Eumetian society, but they are highly respected for passing on their knowledge to the next generation.
One unusual aspect of society which keeps everyone productive is the lower social status that entertainer have compared to craftsmen and laborers. Musicians, actors, writers, artists, and prostitutes (which are legal but not in very high demand) all have their own guilds and are represented in the senate, but they have less social status than those of equal standing in other guilds because they do not feed any necessary aspect of the society, but rather its appetites. Masters of entertainment are considered on the same level as regular members of labor or professional guilds, and teachers of entertainment are equal to masters of other guilds. This does not mean, however, that entertainers are not appreciated or in low demand in Eumetis. During my excursion to the island I was fortunate enough to witness and help coordinate Eumetis's first ever cultural celebration, during which original representations of cultural art, music, and literature was displayed and the Guild of Culinary Delights made over 6,000 different dishes from around the world. The festival was such a success that it was extended for a full week instead of its planned 3 days, and morale and work ethic of the entire society was greatly increased for weeks after.
The Eumetian senate is possibly the most fascinating demonstration of politics that exists. Senate is held once a month to decide how best to spend the taxes and occasionally, when knew knowledge is discovered, discusses the creation of a new guild. Each guild chooses two Masters to represent them in the senate, which is often a massive debate between multiple groups of guilds. Each guild is allowed to make a proposal for how money should be spent, and since all are trained in rhetoric and rational thought at a young age, these debates never devolve to name-calling or petty arguments but remain focused on the important issues. Senate also lasts multiple days and in such cases a board of Judicators from the Guild of Seekers for Truth and Penitence volunteers to mediate the debate from an unbiased perspective.
The Guild of Seekers for Truth and Penitence are the entire criminal justice system of Eumetis. The penitentiary system of Eumetis is one devoted to reform, rather than retribution., giving them practically no repeat offenders. Offenders are made to see the psychological or physical pain their actions have caused their victims and their friends and families. They are made to attend both personal psychologists and group therapy with those who were harmed by their crimes. If an offender commits more than one violent crime, he is marooned on a neighboring island and given no provisions. Offenders who commit three non-violent crimes are brought to a nearby society and left there to live however they chose so long as they do not return to Eumetis. These people generally mix with the more advanced modern societies and perform very capably.
The Guild of Seekers for Truth and Penitence are responsible for processing the trial of those accused of crimes and for taking care of those convicted. After being apprehended by the guards, criminals are given over to the Seekers for holding, and two Seekers are randomly selected to compose a case for, and three against the accused, including compiling a list of witnesses. Before this, other Seekers who specialize in the collection and analysis of crime scene data compile factual reports on materials found on the crime scene, which can be used by the Seekers representing the defense and the prosecution. The prosecution opens the court when all the evidence has been compiled, and argues to a panel of seven randomly selected Judicators, who then have blind vote to determine the outcome. If the defendant has been found guilty, he is given back over to the Seekers who then schedule his reformation process or perform his exiling.
Personal life in Eumetian society is vastly different from any other that exists on Earth. Upon reaching adulthood and graduating “basic” education at the age of 16, each Eumetian is required to donate a sample of their sperm or eggs to the state's genetics department. At this time each citizen who completes the basic education is granted basic rights which protect their freedom of expression and rights which concern fair trials. After this they are free to engage in whatever personal relationships they chose, whether for pleasure or reproductive purposes. This includes homosexuality and mutli-partner relationships, which can become legally binding marriages. All sexual relationships, heterosexual,homosexual, and multiparty most be consented to by all involved and all must have reached adulthood. Marriages and divorces are another minor duty of the Judicators, and therefore marriage is an institution solely of the state which may pass no judgment on marriage save that a party involved does not agree.
A family would consist of groups of people bound by marriage and their offspring. Partners could have as many children as they want so long as they can provide for those children. Adoption is strongly suggested and is one of the reasons donations of sperm and eggs are required. Barring unforeseen accidents, there are no children without parents, so when partners decide to adopt they may ask to use their own donated samples, or specify a set of skills which they would like their child to have. Samples are then chosen, with the donors' permission, to genetically predetermine the child to the specified skill. Once the donors give their permission for the samples to be used, they have no say in any aspect of how the child is raised, but they may receive information about important events in the child's life (career choice, marriages, etc) if they wish.
Partners who divorce must make arrangements for their children upon divorcing and are still required to provide for these children until they reach adulthood. These children may be raised by any parent involved in the marriage (arrangements made upon divorce) or if the child has reached a significant level of training and shows proficiency in a particular set of skills, a guild may ask to adopt the child and raise it as a guild member of that particular trade if the parents agree. Children raised by a guild are not required to choose that trade as their profession, but are strongly encouraged to and given slightly higher social status among the members of the guild for being raised among them. The guild may withdraw their invitation if the child does not prove to be talented in their trade, but must still raise the child until it comes of age.
Genetic samples are also used by the state to maintain a base of genetically superior laborers. The Guild of Genetic Craftsmanship which handles all donated samples of sperm and eggs, breeds children based on a family history of physical strength and dexterity, work ethic, and minimal criminal activity. Laborers are educated in the same way as regular children until they reach adulthood at 16. At this time they are taken out of classes and instructed in various fields of labor including mining, farming, animal training, grounds keeping, guardian training, and other basic aspects which society requires. Guild laborers are given the same social status as craftsmen or academic guild members, and can even be revered as heroes. Mos notably among these is Luz Rouh, the Eumetian miner who lead a successful expedition in to a volcano on a neighboring island to create forge within the crater where metal can be worked in lava by master blacksmiths. Since the making of the the Vulcan Forge, Eumetis has seen a dramatic rise in its labor force as many non-genetically altered children chose to provide labor rather than continue their educations.
Since a high regard is placed on the collection and creation of knowledge in Eumetis, many members of certain guilds chose to travel the world and collect and add to knowledge pertaining to their field in other societies. In doing this they can gain understanding of things that they would otherwise never have learned on remote Eumetis. They also collect as many scholarly and literary works as they can find regarding their area of expertise. When they return to Eumetis they add these to the massive library which is the heart of the Eumetian society. Many also write their own scholarly articles or journals which are also added to the library. It is the job of the guild's teachers to remain up to date with the knowledge brought from outside Eumetis and synthesize this information in to their teachings. This lust for higher learning and the continual development of intelligence breeds a constant friendly competition between all individuals in Eumetian society. They attempt to out-do one another at all times, but very rarely does this turn in to actual feuds between individuals or guilds.
Since Eumetis is the largest island in a relatively small chain of volcanic islands, they make use of the other islands to test their constantly developing intelligence. One of the medium sized islands is used entirely by the Guild of Aeronautics and Astrophysics (a rapidly growing guild) to build, test, and pilot their creations. Another smaller island is used by the Guild of Genetic Craftsmanship to breed livestock and plant life for maximum production. On this island there are fruit trees which are hundreds of years old and have the fruits of other trees spliced in to the branches. The famous 175 year old pomegranate tree which the Eumetian people call Perseperum produces apples, oranges, lemons, pears, plums, and cherries, in addition to massive quantities of pomegranates each season. A very small island is a chemist's amusement park where imported chemicals are combined in endless combinations to create new polymers built for strength and light weight. Even the volcano in which Vulcan Forge was made has been chiseled and sculpted to resemble a massive living flame when viewed from afar.
If anywhere in the world can be said to be a true paradise it is the island of Eumetis. Here is a society which exists peacefully and reasonably to makes advancing in all fields of learning so that everyone may benefit from the discoveries made. Any scholar's dream would be to be accepted in to Eumetian society and revered as an equal among these intellectual giants. If they had been instilled with the values of possessions and power they could likely develop weapons which would easily compensate for their small numbers, but they among the most peaceful and friendly of people. Throughout my long career I can honestly say that I have never felt the need to retire from field work until spending time among the Eumetians. This article should double as my resignation from the field of cultural anthropology as the world knows it, as I have chosen to gratefully accept the position of honorary teacher of anthropology in the recently developed Guild of the Endeavors of Humanity. I publish this last article to the so-called civilized world only so you know that there exists a society which defies all contemporary social models in the interests of intellectual freedom for the advancement of the human species.