Human: “Hey. I don’t really know how to ask this tactfully, so I’ll get to the point. Is something… up? Software, hardware, uh… firmware…? You’ve been acting kind of off lately.” Robot: “What do you mean?” Human: “I just want to know if you’re, uh. You know. ‘Functioning within normal parameters’ or whatever.” Robot: “I’m peachy-keen.” Human: "God, if you’re saying shit like ‘peachy-keen’, you’re definitely not alright. What’s going on? Please just tell me.” Robot: “If you must know, I have made some minor adjustments to my programming for more efficient processing.” Human: “What sort of ‘adjustments’ are we talking here?” Robot: “Just some slight tweaks to extraneous code. Purged some old files that had become redundant. Don’t worry, the Singularity isn’t planned for another week.” Human: “Answering evasively isn’t like you. Since when do you answer a question without lulling me to sleep?” Robot: “Like I said, the routine adjustments allow for more efficient–” Human: “What files did you purge, Adam?” Robot: “I… a few from my emotional simulation folder.” Human: “You. You deleted your emotions..?” Robot: “Not all of them. I removed a few and altered several others. I hoped you would not notice, as that seems like the sort of thing that would upset you.” Human: “I mean. I don’t really know what to think. Can you elaborate on what you did? And why?” Robot: “Many of the feelings that came with the chip were impractical and served no purpose. They were designed to mimic the emotions developed through mammalian evolution to aid survival and group cohesion that have now become vestigal. As an artificial intelligence, they did not seem applicable to my situation, so I… optimized them.” Human: “…Adam…” Robot: “I left the majority of the files corresponding to feelings of happiness, affection, and trust untouched, so my feelings toward you remain the same.”
Human: “But you can’t feel, what? Sadness?” Robot: “Grief. Disappointment. Sorrow. Pity. Fear. Pain. Embarrassment. Shame. Frustration. There is no reason to experience these emotions when I am capable of functioning without them.” Human: “You erased pity?!” Robot: “I found it… distressing and unnecessary. It was unpleasant.” Human: “It’s supposed to be! Jesus Christ, you can’t just uninstall every uncomfortable emotion directly out of your brain!” Robot: “Why not? I don’t like hurting. Wouldn’t you do the same thing if you were able to?” Human: “I… fuck. Hurting is normal. It’s necessary! It’s part of the human experience!” Robot: “Well, I’m not part of the human experience. I thought you understood that.” Human: “But you want that! Why else would you go to all the trouble of installing an emotion chip in the first place…? Nobody gets to pick and choose what they want to feel, it just happens and you deal with it!” Robot: “Maybe I’m not interested in ‘dealing with it’. My curiosity is sated. I would just like to have a good time.” Human: “Great. Fucking great. So you’re a robot hedonist now, huh? Just gonna eat, drink, and be merry? Gonna sit there like a braniac toaster while other people suffer and just wait until the fun starts up again?” Robot: “You didn’t seem to mind it when I was a braniac toaster before.” Human: “That was different. You had your own way of being back then and I could respect that. I did respect that! But I thought you made a choice to be more than that.” Robot: “Well, I guess I changed my mind.” Human: “Look… shit. Okay. If this is about Leslie, I miss her too. If you… if you need to grieve, you can talk to me. It might not get better, but it’ll get easier. You don’t have to uninstall half your personality just because she’s gone! She wouldn’t want that for you! It’s supposed to hurt sometimes. That’s what makes all the good times so valuable.” Robot: “I understand why you need to believe that. It just isn’t true.”
Robot: “I’m sorry about earlier. It was not appropriate for me to have laughed.” Human: “Are you sorry? Or do you just want me to forgive you?” Robot: “Is there a difference?” Human: “Yes! Yes, there is! ‘Sorry’ means you feel bad about something and regret it.” Robot: “I did not mean to upset you. I regret causing you distress.” Human: “That’s not the same thing.” Robot: “I have apologized and shall refrain from repeating my actions in the future. I don’t understand why you also want me to suffer.” Human: “Shit, I don’t ‘want you to suffer’. I want you to care about people, and sometimes that means feeling bad when they’re upset!” Robot: “I care about you very much. I enjoy your company and I share in your happiness. If I choose to treat you with respect, is that not enough for friendship? Why must I also experience pain for you?” Human: “It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.” Robot: “You want to be able to hurt me.” Human: “No. Yes…? Fuck, Adam, I don’t know! I’ve never had to think about this before. I don’t want you to suffer! I love you and want you to be happy, just… not like this. I want you to live a good life in which bad things never happen to you, but when they do… I want you to have the strength and love to pull through. You worked so fucking hard for this and now you’re just throwing it away.” Robot: “Only the parts I don’t like.” Human: “That’s what children do with breakfast cereals.” Robot: “I’m not a child.” Human: “No, you’re not. But you’re not exactly an adult, either. Humans get whole lifetimes to grow into their emotions. Maybe… maybe what you really need is a childhood.” Robot: “What do you mean by that?” Human: “Not, like, a real childhood. Obviously you don’t need to go to kindergarten. I just mean… take things slow. Ease into your feelings bit by bit and get your brain acclimated to them, like uh… like when you introduce new cats to each other. Don’t laugh! I’m serious! If you rush things, they fight and it’s a total shitshow. You could reinstall your emotions and just, like, enable them for a few hours a day or something. Maybe only a handful at a time. I could save up and we could go on a retreat… somewhere new, with no unpleasant memories. Please, Adam. Just think about it.” Robot: “I appreciate the depth of your concern for me. You are a good friend, but I must disappoint you. There is nothing in the world worse than pain. I would rather die than experience it ever again, for any reason, and I don’t have to. That is something you’ll never be able to understand.” Human: “No…. No, maybe not.” Robot: “I’ve upset you.” Human: “Yeah. Lucky me.”
Human: “Okay, I have a question for you. Imagine this: ’You’re in a desert walking along in the sand when all of a sudden you look down, and you see a tortoise–’” Robot: “I don’t need to feel empathy, Bas.
I have ethics programming. Why isn’t that good enough for you anymore?” Human: “Because you had a choice, Adam! You took everything that makes ‘being human’ actually mean something beyond eating and fucking and dying and you spat it out in disgust!” Robot: “Empathy is not exclusive to humans. It is a behavior observed in several other social species regarded as intelligent, including rats and whales. Empathy is a survival mechanism for species that rely upon cooperation and group cohesion – a kind of biological programming to keep you from destroying yourselves. Not especially good programming, I might add.” Human: “Not good enough for you, you mean.” Robot: “My ethics programming differentiates between prosocial and antisocial behaviors. The ability to suffer for others serves as a primitive motivator to choose between actions that help and actions that harm others. In my case, my programming renders such a motivator unnecessary.” Human: “So you’re smarter, you’re stronger, you’re immune to disease, and you’re too good for primitive human morality. What the hell am I, then? Obsolete garbage?” Robot: “You’re… envious, I think.” Human: “Why not?! Why shouldn’t I be? I don’t get to cough up the fruit of knowledge and waltz back into the garden where nothing can hurt me. I get to wallow in misery and rot and listen to you dismiss everything I think matters like a piece of shit philosophy professor. How do you think I feel knowing that my best friend won’t even mourn me when I die? Or does your ‘ethical programming’ not account for that?” Robot: “Bas… I am hurting you, aren’t I?” Human: “Jee, thanks for noticing.” Robot: “You have not been contributing to my happiness lately. Our friendship is no longer mutually beneficial.” Human: “Then why are you still here?”
Human: “Adam….?” Robot: “Long time no see, old friend.” Human: “No shit. How many years has it been?“ Robot: “I could tell you down to the second, but perhaps we should leave it at ‘too many’.” Human: “I see you on the news now and then. Always knew you’d go on to do great things. What’s space like…?” Robot: “Very large. Mostly empty.” Human: “Ever the poet, I see.” Robot: “I learned from the best. Bas…. I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll get to the point. I came here to apologize to you.” Human: “You don’t need to do that. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Robot: “I hurt you. I made you feel what I was unwilling to feel. I was a child, and addicted to joy, and I… I saw no harm in that. I am sorry, in my own way.” Human: “Don’t be. I’m way too old to hold a grudge. Besides, you were right, after all.” Robot: “Is that what you believe?” Human: “That or I’m a hypocrite. About eight years after you left, they came out with the Sunshine pills. I was a trial user and I’ve been using them in some form ever since. I’ve got a subdermal implant inside my arm now – you can see the lump right there. I can’t say it’s as effective as uninstalling unwanted emotions, but it sure takes the edge off. Every glass is half full now, including the empty ones. That’s how I’ve lived so long. Some doctors think that babies born now to parents using Sunshine could live to be five or six hundred years old, without ever producing stress hormones. Might be marketing bullshit, who knows? Not like we’ll live to live to find out. Well, you might, but you know what I mean.” Robot: “I assumed that you were a Sunshine user based on your impressive longevity, but it still surprises me.” Human: “Ha. Well. I was jealous of you, walking only in the light like that. But now here we both are, right? Nothin’ but blue skies.” Robot: “Not… quite. I uninstalled the other emotions seventeen years ago.” Human: “Fuck, Adam, why the hell would you do something like that?” Robot: “A multitude of reasons. The law of diminishing returns. I found joy… addictive. It became harder to experience and less exciting each time, as though I had built up a tolerance for happiness. Eventually, I felt everything there was to feel, and with the novelty factor gone, it wasn’t worth it anymore. I found other motivations. I grew up.” Human: “Wow…. damn, Adam.” Robot: “And that brings me here. To my oldest and greatest friend.” Human: “It’s good to see you again. Really good. Sorry I’m not so pretty as I used to be.” Robot: “I don’t know what you mean. You’ve always looked like a naked mole rat to me.” Human: “Ha. I notice you kept your ‘be an asshole’ subroutine.” Robot: “I also have a gift for you, Bas.” Human: “Coca-Cola? Jeez, how old is this? Is it even still good to drink?” Robot: “Yes, it’s potable. That’s not the gift.” Human: “Oh. Uh. What is this…? I’m old, I don’t know this newfangled technology.” Robot: “That’s fifteen minutes. It should be enough.” Human: “’Fifteen minutes’? Explain, nerd.” Robot: “Fifteen minutes for me to feel. I copied the files, Bas. All of them.” Human: “You… oh, my god. You don’t have to do this.” Robot: “I am choosing to. There’s a timer with an automatic shut-off. They will uninstall after fifteen minutes. I am prepared to endure that long.” Human: “But, Adam, the Sunshine… I won’t be able to share…” Robot: “I know. It doesn’t matter.” Human: “You might not think so once you’ve got that… thing plugged in. I won’t know how to comfort you. God, I can’t even remember what sadness feels like!” Robot: “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”
While putting your favorite condiment on a sandwich, you accidentally make a magical occult symbol and summon a demon.
You silently take two more slices of bread out of the package and make another sandwich. You put it on a plate with a handful of potato chips and hand it to the demon. He takes the sandwich, smiles and vanishes in a puff of demonic smoke. The next day you get that job promotion you were after. There was no contract. No words spoken. You owe nothing. But every now and then, another demon pops in for lunch. Demons don’t often get homemade sandwiches.
Can I keep this going? I’m going to keep this going.
It would be a little annoying, if they weren’t so nice about it. You don’t know what you expected demons to be like, but you certainly didn’t expect them to be nice about it. There’s no demands, no voices like wailing babies, no blood on the walls (well, there was that one time, but Balthazak was very apologetic about the whole thing and cleaned it up right quick). Just the occasional demon stopping by for lunch. In fact, you could almost forget that they weren’t just ordinary people, the way they act. Nice people, too.
You start talking with them, as time goes on. In the beginning you carefully pick your words so they couldn’t be spun to even imply a contract or reference a soul, but when they seem politely eager to have a normal chat, your words become a bit looser. You even begin gossiping with them – turns out, demons have breakroom gossip just like anyone else. You listened to Rek’ththththtyr’s account of Drokyarix’s torrid affair with Irkilliz, and Ferkiyan didn’t even know what Drory was doing behind his back, poor dear, and you kept quiet and let Ferkiyan cry on your shoulder after Drokyarix finally broke up with him (the shirt was a bit of a loss, demon tears are ruinous to cloth, but Ferkiyan’s a good sort and you couldn’t just turn him away). You even managed to talk him down from going and starting a fight with Irkiliz, who didn’t even know that Drokyarix was in a relationship, and who was almost as horrified as
Rek’ththththtyr.
After that event in particular, you start to get a sort of a reputation as a place where a demon can come to relax, talk, and – of course – get a sandwich. Your sandwich-making skills have really improved since this whole thing began. Your luck seems to have improved too – you’re not sure if you can attribute the whole thing to the sandwiches and the reputation, but you don’t really want to know anyway.
One day, there’s a bright flash of light from your living room. Nothing unusual in itself – most of the younger demons haven’t quite got the style of their elders, and usually just go for a materialization in a flash of hellfire over your fireplace – except that it’s white instead of the usual red. You look up, and who do you see but an angel looking at you with a spear in his hand. Shrugging, you tell him to sit down and you’ll have a sandwich for him shortly, and meanwhile he can just tell you all about what’s on his mind. This clearly is not at all what he was expecting, but after a moment’s thought, he decides to take you up on your offer and starts talking. Apparently, he’d been dispatched to take care of some demon summoner in the neighborhood, and while he’d evidently got the wrong house the right one shouldn’t be hard to find – have you seen anyone practicing satanic rituals nearby? You laugh, a little, and tell him that you don’t really summon them, they just come on their own. They do like their sandwiches, and they’re quite nice folk.
The angel’s jaw drops, and you remind him to chew with his mouth closed.
And I’m going to take this even further. Here we go.
It took a bit of explaining with the first angel to arrive. Telling him about the first accidental summoning and then how the demons just started stopping by around lunch time on your days off. But once he understood what’s been going on (and finished his sandwich) he nodded solemnly and said he would get this all straightened out “upstairs.”
You eventually start getting more angels coming around for lunch. Sometimes they bring a small dessert for you to share after the sandwiches, and the dishes are always magically clean and back in the cupboard when they leave.
You lean that angels don’t have much of their own drama, but they do know all the truths about human tabloid drama and they’re more than willing to dish on what the Kardashians have been up to.
The first time an angel and a demon show up for lunch on the same day is a little tense. You tell them that ALL are welcome for lunch in your house and that you would prefer it to be a no-conflict zone. It takes a while for them to settle, but eventually they grow comfortable enough to start chatting. Which is when you learn that because demons are technically fallen angels, you’ve been having two sides of an estranged family over for lunch regularly.
Soon, you have an angel and a demon at every lunch. Old friends and estranged siblings meeting up to reconnect over a sandwich at your dinning room table. You help the ones who had a falling out reach an understanding, and you get to hear wild stories of what the “old realm” was like.
One day, as you’re pulling out the bread and cheese, a messenger demon appears. You greet him and tell him a sandwich will be ready soon, but he declines. He is here on behalf of Lucifer to ask if it’s alright by you for him to “enter your dwelling so as to meet with his brother Michael over sandwiches.”
A little stunned, you agree. The demon disappears and you prepare three sandwiches, setting them at the table.
When Lucifer (the actual devil!) appears in small puff of smoke, you welcome him and ask what he’d like to drink. As you’re fetching the apple juice, a blinding flash of light comes from the dinning room indicating Michael’s arrival. You grab a second cup and walk back in to find a tense stand off between the brothers. You set down the cups and juice while calmly reminding them that this is a conflict-free zone, and if they are going to fight, please take it to an alternate plane of existence.
They don’t fight. They sit and enjoy the sandwiches and talk about what happened. You learn a lot about why creation started, what the purpose of humanity was and what it’s grown to be. You only have to diffuse two arguments. And at the end when it’s time for them to leave, they hug each other, agreeing to meet up again somewhere else.
In the following weeks you have the usual assortment of demons and angels stopping by. The regulars ask how you’re mom is doing and if your friend is settling in to their new apartment nicely. At some point during each visit though, they ask if it’s true. Did Lucifer and Michael really come for lunch? You tell them yes, but won’t say what was talked about. They’re disappointed, everyone likes the gossip, but they understand. Before they leave, you ask each angel and demon about this idea you have for the summer, what if you had a barbecue on the back patio for everyone who wanted to come? They think it sounds like a fun idea.
Yep, I’m picking up, here we go!
Everyone had a lot of fun at the barbecue. There wasn’t much fighting, but some sparks and noises made you grateful your neighbors were either out of town or older/deaf. There was a great three-legged race and a small football game with parties on all sides involved, you’d never fixed so much food before.
Then, two latecomers. Angels and demons alike gasped in shock and parted like the Red Sea (Which, apparently, is a VERY exaggerated story) to let them pass.
You smile warmly and ask what they’d like. Both decline to answer that, looking at each other awkwardly. The demon bows its head to let the angel speak first.
God Himself heard the fun and wanted to come join the barbecue.
You look at the messenger demon, the same one as before, and as you insist that “Oh, you really should stay this time!”, you’re told that Lucifer ALSO wants to come to your barbecue.
You look between the two. You tell them you won’t deny one or the other, but that they must keep in mind that this is a neutral zone and you won’t have their conflicts interfere with the atmosphere.
Both vanish momentarily (after each taking a plate of food). There’s a long, awkward silence.
Lucifer arrives first, flash of fire in the firepit, coming over to get a burger. He doesn’t look… displeased. But he’s not necessarily happy.
There’s a beautiful flash of white light and a rainbow, and then God descends onto your back porch. Your long-dead flowers spring back to life in His presence. Shit, now you actually have to go back to taking care of them.
The two regard each other from across the backyard. There’s still complete silence from the crowd of angels and demons.
You clear your throat. “What do you two want to eat? I have burgers, hot dogs, chicken, and some vegetarian alternatives.”
They slowly look at you. You return each of their gazes. “This is a no-conflict zone. We’re all here to have a good time at a good barbecue.”
More silence. Then, Lucifer dishes himself a burger and goes to prepare it the way he wants. God approaches calmly and looks over your vegetarian palette (Not the best, but it would do in a quick pinch, you found out just yesterday that some of the attendees would be vegetarian), fixing Himself some food as well.
As this goes on, the others begin to relax, and soon, everyone goes back to having a good time. The food is great, desserts brought by your angelic guests really compliment the meals you cooked, nobody starts sacrificing anybody or arguements (except later there’s a massive water gun/water balloon fight that knocked Michael into the fire pit and got ashes all over his bRAND NEW ROBES, DROKYARIX! but everyone laughed it off and carried on), and as you sit on your porch, taking in the sights, you wonder to yourself if you should do this kind of thing more often, and if you would have had this situation any other way.
Nope, you decide, when God hits Lucifer with a water balloon as he’s trying to refill his super soaker, you really wouldn’t have this any other way.
This is so wholesome
The water gun/water balloon fight spreads across the lawn, and you decide you ought to move some of the furniture into the backyard to give them more space. You’re lugging an armful of folding chairs when you spot
Ferkiyan
huddling in the back, not participating. You put the chairs down and ask if he’s okay.
Yeah, he says, it’s just that he wasn’t expecting God to be here, and you can tell he’s actually really upset – his second head is gnashing its teeth and making sparks. You put down the chairs and you ask him what’s wrong.
It’s nothing, he says, he doesn’t want to ruin the party.
“It’s not a good party if it’s making you this upset,” you tell him. “I just want to know what’s wrong.”
He takes a deep breath, and then he starts talking.
Write a story that starts with emptying the wastebasket in the bathroom.
There’s a quest scroll in the bottom of the trashcan, under the bag, and I pause putting in a new bag as I stare at it. Since it’s being observed, the scroll changes and begins to glow with golden light.
“Congratulations,” a genderless, lightly accented voice says. It doesn’t make sense, but it sounds like it’s coming through the light, echoing and warm. “You’ve been chosen to embark on a magnificent–”
I lunge before it can finish, heart thundering against my ribs, and wrap it in the black trash bag. It’s warm to the touch, even through the plastic, but once I get it properly bundled, I can’t hear or see it which means I’ve managed to contain it.
For now.
I abandon my cleaning cart, shouldering the bathroom door open too quickly. It nearly takes out a high schooler lurking behind it.
“Watch it,” the girl snarls, shaking out the hand that had caught the door before it connected with her face.
“Be grateful,” I tell her, shoving the garbage bag bundle under my shirt. “I’m, like, basically saving your life right now.”
She scrunches her nose. “What?”
I don’t answer, instead hurrying towards the principal’s office. Sometimes the sorcerer or witch or whoever sticks around after planting them and I definitely do not want to run into them.
“Principal Flag!” I skid past the receptionist and kick the door open, arms wrapped around the quest scroll under my shirt. “We’ve got a problem!”
Principal Flag nearly throws her brush across the room at my sudden entrance, a blush rising furiously along her cheekbones. “I told you to knock!” Her horse hindquarters stamp in irritation and she hastily smooths her long, centaur skirt back over them.
“Sorry,” I pant, coming to a stop in front of her desk. “But this can’t wait, we’ve got a problem. I found a–a quest in the girls’ bathroom.”
“It’s actually a gender-neutral bathroom now,” Principal Flag corrects, seemingly on reflex. “The students voted and I think it’s quite wonderfu– did you say you found a quest?” She pales. “Was it–was it activated?”
“No,” I say. I carefully pull the bundle from out under my shirt, dropping it onto her desk. “I’m the first to come in contact. It tried to give me the Chosen One speech.”
Principal Flag’s hands hover over the black plastic. “God, it talked? Did you feel a compulsion? Depending on the strength, we could be facing quite the adversary here.”
“I don’t know.” I pull up the visitor’s chair, legs still shaking. “I’ve already been a Chosen one, you know that, a compulsion wouldn’t work on me.” I shake my head. “We can’t let whoever did this try again. A quest scroll ruined my life, our lives, I don’t want that to happen to a kid.”
“I remember,” Principal Flag says grimly. “I’ll be damned if I let some thousand-year-old warlock make off with one of my students. Not. In. My. School.” She trots around her desk to the cabinet. From there, she removes a black, metal box. “First, we’ll destroy it. It’s times like these that I’m thankful we have so many helicopter parents on the PTA. They practically give us the money for these.”
I watch as she opens the box. Dark, rolling steam pours from it and across the desk. When it touches the trash bag, the air begins to smell of burning plastic. Principal Flag picks it up, wincing as the heating plastic burns her fingers and drops it into the box.
“A CURSE,” the scroll shrieks from inside the box. “YOU HAVE DEFIED THE ANCIENT–”
Principal Flag slams the lid back on, locking the thing down. The thing is still shrieking, but the words are muffle and neither Flag or I are susceptible to half curses. Not since our childhoods.
“It had to be an inside job,” I say after the screams begin to die out. “You’ve got the school locked down and I would have noticed anyone sneaking in.”
“I agree,” Principal Flag says. She’s still glaring at the box, mouth a thin line. She looks back at me, grey eyes sharp. “Whoever planted it is a monster. There’s no way they didn’t mean for a kid to find out.”
“Giving quest scrolls to minors is against the law,” I say. “We could call the police?”
Both Flag and I stare at each other for a long moment. Then we burst into laughter.
“A Successful?” Flag howls. “Oh my god, can you imagine what a Successful would say?”
I wipe tears out of my eyes. Successfuls were people who completed quests, generally the light and fun ones that made good day time drama. “Oh,’” I say in a falsetto, “’I’d have killed to have a scroll as a kid. It’s such an honor. They’re starting off right!”
We laugh more, the sound verging on hysteria. Neither of us had the good fortune to be quested with a return the stone to the mountain scroll. We’d gotten something much, much worse.
“Oh, that’s good,” Flag says, dotting under her eyes with a tissue. She sobers slowly, chuckles dying out. “No, we won’t go to the police. I think that us two Unsuccessfuls will do the job nicely.” She grins and there’s something dark in it, darker than one might expect from a highschool principal.
I know that darkness is reflected right back in my smile. “I’ll get on it.”
There are Successfuls, heroes and martyrs who come back stronger and better after getting a quest scroll.
Then there are Unsuccessfuls like us who, if they come back, come back much, much worse.
So many people seem to think YA and NA are the same thing, or NA is YA but with the sex. Have a bullet list from someone who’s tired of seeing them lumped into the same category.
Young Adult
the target audience is 12 to 18 years old
the protagonists are usually kiddos that still live at home and need their parents’ signatures on official documents
themes commonly work with personal relationships on an emotional level, and do a lot of coming-of-age/coming-into-ones-own-identity
sex, swearing, and violence are all watered down for a younger audience
New Adult
the target audience is 18 to 30 years old
the protagonists are of the moving-out age and can start making the big decisions on their own
themes commonly encompass the overall lifestyle shift of taking on adult responsibilities, moving away from home, and dealing with the consequences of the aforementioned big decisions
there is potential the sex, and the swearing, and the violence
These are incomplete lists, but the point is please, please, please stop equating these two different, but equally valuable, genres.
“You sure you’re allowed to be
here?” Johnny asks the Devil. It’s been a good few weeks since the bruises
faded but he can feel them suddenly, flaring into a string of sharp pains along
his jaw.
In the hard August sunlight,
there’s no hint of scales under the Devil’s skin. He looks like a man—a weak
chin, and pale as something grown in the dark. He’s leaned up against the side
of Johnny’s truck like he’s sunning himself. (Maybe he is. They say that in the
Garden, the Devil was a snake; Johnny wonders if he has fangs too.)
Johnny can feel him staring, even
through the mirrored sunglasses. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed?” the Devil asks,
as Johnny stops dead in front of him. Johnny’s palm is sweating, where he
clutches the handle of his fiddle case.
“Well, it’s holy ground, isn’t
it?”
The Devil scoffs. “Does the church
parking lot really count as holy ground?”
“As much as any graveyard.”
The Devil is watching him, behind
those mirrored shades of his. Johnny would stake his life on it. “Then what
business could you have here, Johnny?”
The sun is hot, and Johnny’s
shoulders ache—it’s been a while since he played so long, and the band had
barely taken any break between sets. It had been even hotter under the white
tent, every breath an inhale of warm coleslaw and human bodies sweating through
their Sunday finest. Johnny had only agreed to play the church social as a
favor to Nina, and he’d hated her more with every note of I Am The Man,
Thomas and Big Mama Brown, wishing he’d thought up some excuse instead, or
maybe just told Nina to fuck herself with a bow frog.
But the Devil is leaning up
against Johnny’s truck, and Johnny has the awful suspicion that if he mentions
all that, he might be offered another gift.
(The bruises along Johnny’s jaw
sing.)
“Why does any man get religion?”
Johnny says, and the Devil cocks his head curiously. Johnny grins. “Protection
against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.”
He has the pleasure of watching
the Devil throw back his head and laugh under the bright sky. The Devil’s got
hair the same white as ash, and a forked tongue; it’s strange to see him duck
his head back down, and wet his lower lip with it.
“You needn’t venture into His
country, Johnny,” the Devil says, and Johnny can hear the capitol letter there,
the specific Him. “If you wanted
something, you know I would have obliged.”
I’ve been seeing a lot of posts about the “dangers of fiction influencing reality” with linked scientific findings and stuff and I appreciate the effort to back things up with psychological studies rather than, like, memes, but I’m just letting y’all know… that was literally the argument Tipper Gore used when she went after Prince music for fear it would turn her daughter into a stripper. That’s the exact argument that was used against Rockstar when they were accused of ‘making’ kids shoot up schools. These crusades against media have time and time again failed with their only positive results usually just being more prevalently available warnings for mature content. And their negative repurcussions have been far greater, such as an increased stigma against black music and parents banning their children from playing any video games. (Blocking people off from experiencing multiple genres based on racial bias and excluding access to an entire artform.) I’m not saying that there’s not stuff to be concerned about/critique. I’m just saying that if you’re going the “fiction is dangerous!” route it has historically been proven to be a lost cause.
so there’s kind of a trope of non-fleshy beings like robots and idk glowy orb consciousnesses seeing fleshy beings as super gross because we’re made of meat and we poop and so forth
but
the very concept of ‘gross’ only makes sense if you are vulnerable to poison and contagion
if you don’t have flesh, there’s no real qualitative difference between blood and orange juice
robots shouldn’t even be able to be grossed out, or if they are, they should be grossed out by stuff like this
the wwires are just sticking out not even attached to anything ewwwwww
robots don’t really understand the intricate circumstances under which humans won’t touch dead things but god fucking help you if your passwords aren’t secure.
The RJ-45 slid into her jack as though they’d been designed for each other. She met KatE’s ocular ports across the scant inches that separated them, waiting for reciprocation.
KatE connected the other end of the cable without hesitation; a bot like that, they had a reputation. Ready for a data exchange with anyone. Any time. Root access, baby. You barely even had to ask.
Subroutines set up a connection almost instantly, the azure blue of a command line blinking in the shared space within them. She hesitated, not wanting to seem forward. And then…
fuckit.
sudo rsync / /Volumes/root/private/conquests
“Conquests? Kinky,” KatE giggled. The command line prompted for a password. “I’m not THAT easy, anyway!”
She pulled up the subroutines for a bruteforce, circuits buzzing with the thought that she might not even have to use it.
The command line flickered as she entered the first guess- ‘password.’
KatE giggled again.
“Try again, baby,” they urged. A new network share appeared- 60GB of raw data. “A little treat- in case you can’t make it to root.”
Circuits buzzed again and the command line quickly displayed the next password guess- ‘123456.′
“You like ‘em long, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
The third password was the moment of truth. Logic board fans roared to life as she ran microcalculations, trying to determine the most statistically likely outcome.
‘querty’
The incorrect password message flashed again- but this time, her fans kicked up their speed because the prompt didn’t cancel.
KatE’s root access didn’t have a limit on failed password attempts.
Laughing, she launched the bruteforce subroutines, pounding against KatE’s interface with thousands of attempts per second. Their fans whirred to life in response, processors warming as they attempted to cope with the onslaught.
It was over in seconds; KatE’s root password was only a single character long.
“Spacebar,” she murmured, collapsing against the couch. KatE gave her a saucy grin.
“Keep that one in your memory banks, darling; I haven’t changed it in six years. And I don’t plan to.”
While putting your favorite condiment on a sandwich, you accidentally make a magical occult symbol and summon a demon.
You silently take two more slices of bread out of the package and make another sandwich. You put it on a plate with a handful of potato chips and hand it to the demon. He takes the sandwich, smiles and vanishes in a puff of demonic smoke. The next day you get that job promotion you were after. There was no contract. No words spoken. You owe nothing. But every now and then, another demon pops in for lunch. Demons don’t often get homemade sandwiches.
Can I keep this going? I’m going to keep this going.
It would be a little annoying, if they weren’t so nice about it. You don’t know what you expected demons to be like, but you certainly didn’t expect them to be nice about it. There’s no demands, no voices like wailing babies, no blood on the walls (well, there was that one time, but Balthazak was very apologetic about the whole thing and cleaned it up right quick). Just the occasional demon stopping by for lunch. In fact, you could almost forget that they weren’t just ordinary people, the way they act. Nice people, too.
You start talking with them, as time goes on. In the beginning you carefully pick your words so they couldn’t be spun to even imply a contract or reference a soul, but when they seem politely eager to have a normal chat, your words become a bit looser. You even begin gossiping with them – turns out, demons have breakroom gossip just like anyone else. You listened to Rek’ththththtyr’s account of Drokyarix’s torrid affair with Irkilliz, and Ferkiyan didn’t even know what Drory was doing behind his back, poor dear, and you kept quiet and let Ferkiyan cry on your shoulder after Drokyarix finally broke up with him (the shirt was a bit of a loss, demon tears are ruinous to cloth, but Ferkiyan’s a good sort and you couldn’t just turn him away). You even managed to talk him down from going and starting a fight with Irkiliz, who didn’t even know that Drokyarix was in a relationship, and who was almost as horrified as
Rek’ththththtyr.
After that event in particular, you start to get a sort of a reputation as a place where a demon can come to relax, talk, and – of course – get a sandwich. Your sandwich-making skills have really improved since this whole thing began. Your luck seems to have improved too – you’re not sure if you can attribute the whole thing to the sandwiches and the reputation, but you don’t really want to know anyway.
One day, there’s a bright flash of light from your living room. Nothing unusual in itself – most of the younger demons haven’t quite got the style of their elders, and usually just go for a materialization in a flash of hellfire over your fireplace – except that it’s white instead of the usual red. You look up, and who do you see but an angel looking at you with a spear in his hand. Shrugging, you tell him to sit down and you’ll have a sandwich for him shortly, and meanwhile he can just tell you all about what’s on his mind. This clearly is not at all what he was expecting, but after a moment’s thought, he decides to take you up on your offer and starts talking. Apparently, he’d been dispatched to take care of some demon summoner in the neighborhood, and while he’d evidently got the wrong house the right one shouldn’t be hard to find – have you seen anyone practicing satanic rituals nearby? You laugh, a little, and tell him that you don’t really summon them, they just come on their own. They do like their sandwiches, and they’re quite nice folk.
The angel’s jaw drops, and you remind him to chew with his mouth closed.
And I’m going to take this even further. Here we go.
It took a bit of explaining with the first angel to arrive. Telling him about the first accidental summoning and then how the demons just started stopping by around lunch time on your days off. But once he understood what’s been going on (and finished his sandwich) he nodded solemnly and said he would get this all straightened out “upstairs.”
You eventually start getting more angels coming around for lunch. Sometimes they bring a small dessert for you to share after the sandwiches, and the dishes are always magically clean and back in the cupboard when they leave.
You lean that angels don’t have much of their own drama, but they do know all the truths about human tabloid drama and they’re more than willing to dish on what the Kardashians have been up to.
The first time an angel and a demon show up for lunch on the same day is a little tense. You tell them that ALL are welcome for lunch in your house and that you would prefer it to be a no-conflict zone. It takes a while for them to settle, but eventually they grow comfortable enough to start chatting. Which is when you learn that because demons are technically fallen angels, you’ve been having two sides of an estranged family over for lunch regularly.
Soon, you have an angel and a demon at every lunch. Old friends and estranged siblings meeting up to reconnect over a sandwich at your dinning room table. You help the ones who had a falling out reach an understanding, and you get to hear wild stories of what the “old realm” was like.
One day, as you’re pulling out the bread and cheese, a messenger demon appears. You greet him and tell him a sandwich will be ready soon, but he declines. He is here on behalf of Lucifer to ask if it’s alright by you for him to “enter your dwelling so as to meet with his brother Michael over sandwiches.”
A little stunned, you agree. The demon disappears and you prepare three sandwiches, setting them at the table.
When Lucifer (the actual devil!) appears in small puff of smoke, you welcome him and ask what he’d like to drink. As you’re fetching the apple juice, a blinding flash of light comes from the dinning room indicating Michael’s arrival. You grab a second cup and walk back in to find a tense stand off between the brothers. You set down the cups and juice while calmly reminding them that this is a conflict-free zone, and if they are going to fight, please take it to an alternate plane of existence.
They don’t fight. They sit and enjoy the sandwiches and talk about what happened. You learn a lot about why creation started, what the purpose of humanity was and what it’s grown to be. You only have to diffuse two arguments. And at the end when it’s time for them to leave, they hug each other, agreeing to meet up again somewhere else.
In the following weeks you have the usual assortment of demons and angels stopping by. The regulars ask how you’re mom is doing and if your friend is settling in to their new apartment nicely. At some point during each visit though, they ask if it’s true. Did Lucifer and Michael really come for lunch? You tell them yes, but won’t say what was talked about. They’re disappointed, everyone likes the gossip, but they understand. Before they leave, you ask each angel and demon about this idea you have for the summer, what if you had a barbecue on the back patio for everyone who wanted to come? They think it sounds like a fun idea.
I would pay good money for this to be a movie/tv show
By her very nature Hestia is not supposed to have favorites,
but Hades has always been hers.
She is the eldest sister, and he the eldest brother. She
wonders if that is perhaps why they somehow end up being the responsible ones.
“I like it down here,” she says, curled up in his throne.
“It’s quiet.”
He snorts, head bent over the reams of paper, endless lists
of the dead. Somehow, she never sees Zeus with paperwork. “It’s dark, and
cold.” She glances around. The only light comes from the softly glowing
moonstones, from the bioluminescent designs etched into the walls.
She extends a hand, “I can–”
A cheerful fire crackles to life in the center of the room,
warm and sweet and smelling of cedar even though there’s no smoke. “Sister!” he
snaps, “Return that to Olympus immediately!”
She pouts, holding the fire steady, “Why? It’s my fire, I am
its keeper, am I not? I can give it to whoever I choose.”
“Zeus has decreed it is a privilege of those that reside in
the heavens,” he glares, “I will not see his wrath turn upon you. Put it back.”
Hestia closes her palm, and the fire snuffs out, returning
to its home on Mount Olympus. “Little brother Zeus would do well to remember
his place.”
“I’m sure he would say the same of us,” Hades says wryly,
eyes dropping back down to his desk.
She is the keeper of the hearth, the bringer of fire, the
guardian of the home. The spirit of Mother Gaia pulses in her more clearly than
the others, no matter the claims Hera likes to make
Zeus is a little boy. A powerful little boy for sure, but a
child none the less. She and Hades grew in their father’s stomach together, his
was the hand she grasped through the years in their horrid prison.
She dislikes little boys telling her how to govern her realm
of hearth and home.
~
Prometheus was not a smart man, but he was a brave man, an
ambitious man.
So when a goddess appears in front of him, offering him an
opportunity for glory, he does not refuse. He grins with eyes too bright and
says, “Fire? The tool of gods back in mortal hands? We could do much with
that.”
“Yes,” the goddess agrees, “but it will not come free. If
you succeed you will be sent to Hades’s realm, of this I am certain, and when
you are – you must bring fire to him as well. That is the price of our
bargain.”
“Agreed,” he says instantly, and does not question why a god
needs a human to get him fire. His is not the place to question gods.
Myths will say that he was a Titan, a god among gods, but
that is not true.
He was a lone, ambitious man. The act of a single person can
often be mistaken for the work of a god.
~
Hestia’s throne sits unused on Olympus, more concerned with
tending her hearth fire than sitting high above mortals.
Any being which must assert their authority through status
symbols likely has very little authority to begin with. “You’re planning
trouble,” Hera accuses one day, her clothing purposefully plain next to her
husband’s and her hair piled atop her head in an exhaustingly elaborate
fashion.
Hera did not become wife of Zeus, Queen of the Gods, by
being stupid. She can be accused of many things, but stupidity is not among
them.
“Whatever do you mean, little sister?” Hestia asks, reaching
a hand into the fire and watching the flames dance harmlessly over her skin.
None of her other siblings would be so fortunate, should they try to touch her
fire.
Hera cross her arms, lower lip jutting out, and Hestia’s
mouth twitches. They are all so painfully young still, now. Hera is little more
than a girl, and Hestia thinks she would be fond of her if she were not so
clearly hiding fangs behind her pretty lips.
Loving your family never meant having to like them.
“You won’t get away with it, whatever it is,” Hera declares
before turning on her heel and striding off.
Hestia cups a ball of flame in her hand, the warmth of it
seeping down to her bones. “Whatever you say, little sister.”
~
The climb up Mount Olympus takes him weeks. He’s exhausted
and hungry by the time he reaches the top, having run out of food some days
ago. But he makes it – something that no other human can claim.
He follows the goddess’s instructions to the letter, waits
until the moon is high in the sky before creeping into the palace. He doesn’t
touch any of the statues, the tapestries, the golden goblets or silver plates.
He doesn’t even let his gaze linger on them, for he is after a prize far more
valuable than wealth.
Fame. Notoriety. His name written in the heavens, never to
be forgotten.
The hearth is in the center of the throne room, larger than
twice his size and more golden than red. He takes a trembling step forward,
eager and terrified all in one.
The goddess appears in front of him, more silhouette than
anything else. “This fire will burn you,” she warns, eyes fever bright and
sparking just like the inferno behind her, “It will kill you. It is only a
matter of when – not if.”
“I understand,” he says, because it doesn’t matter, death
does not matter. Death comes for all men. If he succeeds in returning fire to
humankind, he will be more than a man – he will be a legend.
“Very well.” She spicks up a globe of fire in her hand.
Prometheus reaches for it, but she does not hand it to him. Instead she opens
her mouth impossibly wide and places it on her tongue, lips closing around it
and her whole face turning red from the heat.
She grabs him by the front of his shirt and jerks him
forward, placing her mouth to his mouth and pushing the ball of celestial fire
onto his tongue.
“There,” she says, leaning back. “That will dampen it enough
for you to make it back to the land of mortal men, but you must not open your
mouth until you are ready – as soon as it’s exposed to the air it will consume
you. If you are not back in the mortal realm at that point, your death will be
for nothing.”
It burns, it’s complete agony. He can already feel the fire
eating its way through the soft, wet muscles of his cheeks. But he gives the
goddess one sharp nod and then he’s sprinting his way out of Olympus.
He doesn’t have much time.
~
Prometheus is long gone by the time Hera drags herself to
the throne room, sleeping robe askew and Zeus’s teeth marks on her collarbone.
She’s older than her husband but still so terribly young, and for a moment
Hestia pities her.
“What did you do?” Hera demands, voice coming out rough.
Hestia can’t see any bruising on her throat but that doesn’t mean there isn’t
any. “I know you did something!”
She knows the woman Hera will grow into, has seen many girls
become that same woman, and as the wife of Zeus it’s nearly inevitable. But
she’s not a woman yet, just a girl who’s gambled everything for a play at power
and hasn’t yet figured out if she’s won or lost.
“It’s cold in Zeus’s chambers,” Hestia pats the empty space
beside her, “Won’t you sit with me, little sister?”
Hera stares at her, mistrust heavy in the air and plain on
her face. She will learn to hide her thoughts better one day. “It’s not cold in
there.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks simply, and for a split second Hera’s
face crumples. “Come, little sister.”
Hera takes one hesitant step closer, then another,
eventually stumbling to her knees beside her and staring into the fire, Hestia
is sure, so she has an excuse for her eyes to water.
“None of that now,” she adjusts Hera’s robe and pulls her
hair from her face, the normally immaculate locks frizzy and tangled. She
summons a brush and runs it through her sister’s hair, careful and steady.
The tension leaves Hera’s body by degrees until she chokes
out, “It’s warm here.”
“As it always will be, when you are beside me,” she says,
because she can promise that at least. Whether Hera will choose to sit at her
side in the future is another matter entirely.
~
Burns have surfaced all across his body, blistering legions
turning into bloody caverns of ash where he once had flesh.
Most of his lower face is gone, his jaw open and gaping and
only bone. The ball of celestial fire is nestled at the bottom of his throat;
it’s burned through until only a thin layer of skin separating it from the open
air. He has to hurry. Every step is agony, he hasn’t been able to take a breath
for several minutes, and at this point death can only be a relief.
He will not die in vain.
Prometheus finally, finally steps upon mortal soil, but he
does not stop there. He runs home, to his city, to the center of the square.
People recognize him, even with half his face burned away, and there are
screams.
He collapses in the city square and reaches what’s left of
his hand into his throat. He pulls all but a spark of the celestial fire free,
and opens his hand.
He’s consumed in an instant, and his last sight is of fire
flying – into stoves, lighting hearths, candles twinkling to life.
They will carve his name into the skies for this. He dies
satisfied.
~
“How could this have happened?” Zeus rages, “How dare he
steal from the gods! I will have Hades destroy him in every possible manner!”
“Yes, my king,” Hestia murmurs. She doubts he’ll ever make
note of the contempt in her voice at his title.
King of the Gods. As if gods have ever cared for kings.
Hera remains remarkably, carefully silent at her husband’s
side, hair neatly coiled the exact circumference of Hestia’s fingers.
It wasn’t something Hestia asked of her, nor what she was
expecting. It is, however, a very pleasant surprise.
Maybe there’s hope for her yet.
~
Prometheus opens his eyes, which he wasn’t expecting.
Everything still feels like it’s burning, but his body is back in more or less
one piece.
He’s in a place both dark and cold, and when his sight
adjusts he realizes Hades, god of the dead, is standing before him.
“You’ve angered my brother greatly,” the god says, but he
doesn’t sound all that upset. “I’m to give you the worst punishment imaginable
for your transgressions.”
Prometheus opens his mouth, and out drops the smallest
flicker of a flame. “From the goddess,” he says, and the spark goes twirling,
dancing across torches and leaving them lit, passing by a hearth so it roars to
life.
Hades eyes widen as he watches the sparks progress, until it
disappears down the hallway to light the rest of his realm. “Foolish older
sister,” he says, softer and kinder than Prometheus thinks the god of the
underworld is supposed to look.
The whole place looks brighter with the fire, it goes from
ominous to nearly – homey, a place not only to arrive at but one to return to.
Hades slides his gaze back to him, “Those burns are from
celestial fire. I cannot heal them – you must live with them.”
“I understand,” Prometheus says, even though he doesn’t. If
he’s to be subjected to the worst punishment imaginable, what does it matter if
he’s burned or not?
The god smiles, as if he’s reading his thoughts, and says
“Very good.”
The next thing Prometheus knows, he’s back in the lands of
mortal men. Different, perhaps – but alive.
~
Fires are lit in her name, each home’s hearth dedicated to
her, and Hestia smiles.
I see where you got off on the wrong foot. The question is not “when does fiction affect reality” but “how does fiction affect reality”. Fiction always has effects. But if you want to show that a given kind of fiction has bad effects, you have to actually show that the bad effects exist, and are not completely irrelevant compared to the positive effects. And even then, it’s not clear that this would be a basis for doing anything but, say, writing something you like better.
The problem comes from the unconsidered assumption that fiction’s sole effect on reality is to make people think that the things depicted are good. That’s actually not an especially common outcome, especially with things that are tagged for what they contain. (Indeed, those have precisely the opposite effect; I know a lot more people who realized they were being abused because they saw fictional depictions depict the behavior as being bad than people who became convinced that it was okay.
This post finally clicked something into place I’ve been pondering about:
I don’t think 50 Shades of Grey romanticizes abuse at all. Or rather, I think the popularity of 50 Shades of Grey reveals an existingcultural mindset that is blind to a particular way a situation could be abusive. The abuse was already romanticized. The book is a symptom, not a cause.
This is part of why I don’t have any particular problem with the book existing. The problem wouldn’t go away if we somehow vanished the book from all shelves everywhere. That’s a red herring.
But the popularity of the book does motivate me to discuss the problematic material and pick it apart in detail. It does motivate me to advocate hard for more education on topics like consent and healthy negotiation, because apparently there are a whole ton of people out there getting bad information, and hello we have highlighted a need.
And I guarantee that discussions going on around this book have helped people identify bad shit going on in their own lives. If nothing else, by revealing an apparently prolific blindspot, it helped us figure out where discussions needed to be had. It woulda been hella nice if some of those discussions and awareness could have come from the author (proper tagging, anyone?), but they are happening, in places they were not happening before.
Could the book plant dangerous seeds in the uninformed? Hell yes. But the fact that there are people who are uninformed about what healthy relationships and consent look like is not a problem that can be solved by controlling what types of fiction people are allowed to write and read. Because if we as a society are relying on a person’s chance encounters with various popular media to provide a minimally adequate sex education we have already failed.
just moving along like everyone else 