As I pen these words, I am so giddy with triumph and fervor that I can hardly remain seated. The mortal veil has been spared from my eyes and the golden-brown truth lays bare before me. I can't help but wonder if this is how Prometheus felt after pulling a fast one on the gods by stealing fire straight from under the noses? Here today, I have proven my alchemical prowess and achieved the legendary. I have manifested the most sacred matter of all matter through transmutation of the elements--a process that is only possible after experiencing both life and death. Now I can confess the truth, the Philosopher's Scone is real. And as I sit here, inebriated by the aromas of the alchemical process, I must pen my perfected recipe before it escapes me. Undoubtedly, many will discount my words as metaphysical hogwash. I do not care. The profane are not worthy of the truth; only the enlightened can see the light. In good faith, I grant these words wings so they may reach my fellow and aspiring alchemists. Together we shall stand, hallowing our scones, in contempt of mortal darkness.
It began on a warm summer evening. I was scrounging the forest for Ginseng root. In delight of my abundant findings, I lost track of time. The sun had already dipped below the horizon and through the dense overgrowth of foliage, I could not observe my landmark streetlight. As much as I hate to admit it, I was lost. I groped around the darkness for a familiar landmark to no avail. The only advantage afforded to me was the cloudless sky and the full moon shining overhead. Without those, it would have been too dark to move. As time advanced further into the night, my mind worked itself into a frenzy over the sounds of things--menacing things--that might be lurking in the shadows. I considered screaming for help, but quickly thought better of it. To a wild beast who missed his supper a scream would surely be an invitation for a midnight snack. I had decided it was best just to keep moving in the same direction. Even outside the city, there were roads everywhere, sooner or later I was bound happen upon one. After wrangling my way through a particularly nasty pine thicket, I stepped into a most unusual clearing; a circle barren of any vegetation that was a good twenty yards in diameter. Curiously, there was a colonnade forming a half-circle that served as a backdrop to a marble throne at the center of the clearing. Naturally, I approached the throne for further investigation. I was awestruck by the throne's craftsmanship which was engraved with owls and Greek lettering. As I approached the throne I felt an insatiable urge to sit on it. Just as I got within touching distance, a thick plume of purple smoke enveloped the throne and myself. A pungent, burnt odor accompanied the smoke. I could not see, my eyes burned, and I choked and gagged. In an instant, a great gust of wind blew the smoke away and toppled me to the ground at the base of the throne. When I tried to get up I noticed a woman was seated on the throne. She was wearing a shimmery white tunic with gold accents and there was an owl perched on her shoulder. I recognized her immediately as Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. I could not believe my eyes. I looked up at her and tried to speak, but all that came out was an unintelligible noise. Athena looked down, smiled, and leaned forward slowly advanced her cupped hand toward my face. There was something in her hand but I could not tell what it was. I felt both mesmerized and paralyzed by her approaching hand. When her hand was directly in front of me I could see the off-white colored orb with a golden-brown top. A philosopher's scone, I thought, She is offering me a scone. I reached out to take the scone, and when I touched it, I experienced what felt like an intense electric shock. My whole body convulsed and suddenly, I understood. My mind became clear. I realized that everything has meaning and also, nothing has meaning. My thoughts went from chaos to order. For the first time in my life, I felt purpose and that purpose was the philosopher's scone. I was so overwhelmed, I blacked out.
I woke up lying face-up in the clearing. The sun was bright and I was starving. I could hear traffic on a road somewhere nearby. I looked around. I was alone except for a few pigeons clamoring over some dirty bread crumbs. The colonnade, the throne, and Athena were all gone. Was it a dream? I got up, found my way to the road, and was relieved to find that I was only a few blocks from home.
Inside my house, I froze when I saw my calendar clock--That can’t be right. According to the calendar, I had been gone for three days--no wonder I was starving. I made a beeline for the fridge. I stood there, with the door open, accessing the contents: a half pack of Brown & Serve rolls, a can of flaky jumbo biscuits, a moldy pack of English muffins, and some leftover bread sticks. I realized there was something different about my hunger. I did not long for the things I saw before me. The store-bought rubbish had no appeal to me. "This is the bread of the jester, not fit for a chamber pot," I said aloud. But I was still starving, so I devoured the can of raw biscuits as I pondered my forest experience. Did it really happen? Did Athena herself appear before me? Then it hit me like a thunderbolt, The philosopher's scone! I'd forgotten about the scone. The philosopher's scone was my true craving. I knew, right then and there, that my hunger would never be satisfied until successfully created the philosopher's scone.
Twelve times I attempted and failed at making the philosopher's scone. The thirteenth effort was a complete success! As a forewarning, I must say, the making of the scone is not entirely scientific. In alchemy you must know the unknowable laws of nature. Every true alchemist knows that only a proper initiate can see through the veil and fathom the truth. This is not a matter of book learning; when you are ready, esoteric knowledge will find you.
My victorious attempt began under the new moon. Beaten and downtrodden by my first dozen failures I resolved for one final attempt before succumbing to defeat. In my study, I filled my chalice with a lovely red wine, sat back in my chair, and pored over prior entries in my notebook. There had to be some reason for my piteous failures; but, what could it have been? The constituents had to be correct; those ancient Greek texts could not be wrong. I turned to examining the procedure itself. I really had not given it much thought; I mean, how many different ways can you combine the basic elements? Perhaps, the direction of the stirring or the type of incense mattered. I failed to see how. Through deductive reasoning, I knocked down each fatal flaw, one by one. In the end, the only flaw left standing, was me. I realized that I, like so many others, have a self-inflicted veil that distorts my vision and clouds my thinking. For as long as I can remember I have been plagued by negative thoughts, self-doubt, depression, anxiety, zero self-esteem, and an inexplicable fear of success. My negative disposition had sabotaged my efforts from the beginning. With all those negatives running in the background, it's amazing I could think at all. The truth is, if you focus on suffering, you'll never see past it. If you really want to see, you must be centered in the present and observe using all of your senses. With this understanding, I banished the negative demons from my mind and hotfooted it over to my lab only to find myself low on supplies. A trip to the Temple of Groceries was next on the agenda.
Don't let these grocery temples fool you. From the outside, it might seem like a spacious gymnasium. However, on the inside, you'll find a confusing labyrinth jam-packed with isles of prepackaged rubbish designed to lure peasants into the deadly sin of gluttony. Unless you know the secret to navigating the maze, you could spend hours--distracted and salivating--just to find the common elements of yeast or flour. To make matters worse, it's said that the Minotaur roams the isles at night, rearranging things in the least logical fashion. Anyway, as I approached the temple, the sliding doors magically parted, granting my passage into the sanctified realm. A friendly drudge tried to tempt me with a push cart. Naturally, I declined the offer as I knew exactly what I was after and desired nothing more. If you need to quickly locate the basic elements in the temple, look up. There is usually a placard hanging over the end of each isle indicating the classification of things you might find on that isle. I scanned the placards and discovered that flour should be on isle number six so that's exactly where I went. About half way down the isle I found the sacks of flour. Flour is the main element for manifesting the scone so its quality is of the upmost importance. The obvious choice for my scones was, none other than, the legendary King Arthur, all-purpose flour. Some claim that King Arthur was a myth, but this is nonsense; how can a legend be a myth? A few feet down from the flour sacks, I found the packets of life giving yeast I needed and proceeded to the checkout.
Back in the comfort of my abode I drew the blinds, closed the curtains, killed the lights, and muted the phone. Unless you fancy being drawn and quartered in a public square, us alchemists must perform our work out of public view. Next, I dug out my altar which I personally handcrafted of hardwood scraps. I lit a few candles and a charcoal briquette which I topped off with a bit of frankincense for good measure. Upon my altar I was preparing to create a living, breathing organism by combining elements from the animal and vegetable kingdoms with the simple elements of the earth. I began by placing a large earthenware bowl upon the alter. Into the bowl, I added some pure rainwater which had been acclimated to the temperature of life. My method for water temperature acclimation is to pour the water into one of them old rubber water bottles and sit on it for half an hour. To initiate life, I sprinkled the contents of a yeast packet onto the water and added a double spoon of sugar to feed the yeast. Next, I took a break.
After about ten minutes I returned to the alter to find that the formulation in my earthenware bowl had become frothy, proving that conception of life had occurred. The next step was for me to develop the body of my scones. To do that requires elements from the vegetable kingdom and the earth. I added two pinches of salt from the earth to give my scones character. The salt, of course, could be omitted but would result in very bland scones. Next, I added a spoon of my best anointing oil which was olive oil from the vegetable kingdom. At last, I was ready to add the final element from the vegetable kingdom. This was the flour element christened in the name of legendary King Arthur. I added the flour a little at a time to the mixture while stirring it all together with a large spoon. The goal is to form a solid, but pliable mass similar to that of modeling clay. In our case the pliable mixture is referred to a dough. There is a delicate art to getting the consistency just right which can only be learned through experience. I continued to add flour and mix the dough until it clung together in a ball and wasn't too sticky to handle by hand. Again, what this feels and looks like will come with experience.
For the next step, I removed the bowl from the altar and sprinkled some of the vegetable element, flour, onto the surface of the alter. I found it helpful to rub some of the flour element onto my hands as well. I then gently removed the mass of dough from the bowl and placed it upon the altar. Using my bare hands I worked the mass in a kneading fashion. You can roll it up, squish it around, squeeze and stretch it, or just keep folding it into itself. The thing to do is to just keep working it. If it starts to stick to your hands, add a bit more flour. After a few minutes of working the dough I noticed that the texture was smoothing out--this is a good thing. Once I had the mass formed and kneaded to my satisfaction I poured a bit of anointing oil into a clean earthenware bowl. I then placed the dough mass into the bowl and rolled it around to coat the entire surface with the oil. Finally, I draped a linen over the bowl and left it alone for the next hour or so to allow nature to perform her magic.
When I returned to check on my creation, I was pleasantly surprised to find a large bulge in my linen; my dough mass had outgrown the bowl. At this stage the scone is wild, unruly, and too large to be practical. The next step was fun for me and reminded me of the old maxim: Divide and Conquer. This is where I reformed the mass of dough into its final form and made it my own. I removed the linen and used my fist to punch that bulging dough ball back down to size. I did not simply punch it once, I beat it flat out, turned it over, and beat it again. I beat it until my frustrations were properly spent. And then, I wiped the sweat off my brow and moved on to the next step.
I prepared a metal pan by smearing the inside surfaces with anointing oil. I then reformed my mangled mass of dough into a ball and divided and shaped it into twelve equal sized spheres. With the loving-care of a new mother, I placed the twelve spheres, evenly spaced, in my prepared pan. As before, I covered my orbs of dough with linen and left them at the mercy of nature for the next hour or so.
Upon returning, I found my linen had bulged slightly above the top of my pan. I removed the linen to find that my scones had all grown up and gaps, that were between them, had filled in. Needless to say I was thrilled beyond words. By candlelight, my scones looked like twelve full moons. All that remained was the final step: Purgatory by fire. Everything that lives, must die, including Philosopher's scones. I placed my pan of scones in my preheated furnace. Occasionally, I peered into the furnace to check the progress. After about twenty-five minutes the skins on top of my scones had turned to golden brown--transmutation was complete. I removed my scones and sat them aside whilst I collected the animal kingdom element known as butter from the refrigerator. While still piping hot, I slit the scones open and inserted a generous pat of butter in each and every one. I then, shamelessly partook of their deliciousness. I did, of course, leave one buttered scone on the alter as an offering to Athena.
A final note for those who attempt to make their own Philosopher's Scones. A common problem is that the scones fail to spawn life. The dreaded stillborn scone has a few causes: dead yeast, overheated water, or even that negative disposition I talked about earlier. Whatever the case, lifeless scones will neither grow nor mature. If you do prepare the dead scones and put then in the furnace, the process will yield small spheres which are hard like rocks. Sorry, my friend, these are not philosopher's scones. These hardened orbs are what us alchemists refer to as Philosopher's Stones. The Philosopher's Stone is divine folly; mere possession of said stone is proof of a failed alchemist.
Posted: April 21, 2024, 1:31 am
Note: I wrote this story in 2007. It was originally titled: My Trip to the Future.
Yesterday, I was lounging in my mom's front yard, watching the clouds go by, when an antique Volkswagen bus pulled into the driveway. The banana-colored bus was accented with crudely painted daisies and garish praying mantises, the wheels had grungy, white-wall tires and yellow smiley-face hub caps, and centered on the front bumper was an old-style license plate which read: "FURTHER." The bus stopped and a scrawny fella with long, wavy hair emerged from it. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses, a threadbare white under-shirt, tattered bell bottom blue jeans, and white canvas tennis shoes that appeared to have mathematical formulas written on them. I stood up as he approached me and with an earnest smile he offered his hand and said, "Hello my friend."
Naturally, I was suspicious of the fella. It wasn't every day that a man came around dressed like that and I could not remember when I last saw a Volkswagen bus in person. I had a gut feeling this fella wasn't the usual door-to-door sales agent or Jehovah's Witness recruiter. Without offering my hand in return, I replied coldly, "What do you want?"
The fella put down his hand, sighed and said, "I'm looking for some parts, man. Vacuum tubes. I need two 12AX7's and a 6V6." He motioned in the direction of Ray's Country Store and continued, "The old cat working the convenience store directed me here. He said that you have a plethora of electrical scrap. Can you help me out, man?"
Vacuum tubes? That's weird, I thought. Not more than two days before, I had salvaged some tubes from a busted, reel-to-reel tape recorder. I was certain that I had pulled a couple of 12XA7's from the recorder but I wasn't sure about the 6V6. "I might have the tubes you are looking for. Why do you need them?" I asked curiously.
"I need the tubes to complete my trip, man. I hate to ask, but my options are limited at this point. By the way, I'm Kevin Adams," he said and again offered his hand.
I shook his hand and replied, "I'm Dorian Rhodes. So, where are you going?"
"2069," Kevin stammered.
"Okay? Where is that?"
"A long way from here, I'm afraid. I really need those tubes, man. I have an important message to deliver."
I found the conversation a bit odd as I could not find meaning in the words Kevin was saying. I wondered if Kevin himself, knew what he was saying. I started to think that Kevin might be a bit off in the head, or perhaps, stoned out of his mind. "So, Kevin. Where are you from?" I inquired.
"1966," Kevin declared, "My bus started acting up in 1998, my electrosonic rift separator went kerplunk in 2006, and I coasted, right here, into this very day of 2007. This just hasn't been my day, man."
"Is this some kind of a joke?" I snapped back.
"Look, man, I know how far-out this must sound. I'll get straight to the point. I need those tubes to repair my bus so I can get to the year 2069."
I pondered Kevin's words for a moment and asked, "Are you suggesting that, that old bus can outrun time?"
Kevin looked over at his bus admiringly, smiled, and declared "When working properly, that bus can spin the hands off a Rolex."
With that, I surmised that Kevin was properly out of his mind. I wondered just how far he could carry his story before he slipped up or ran out of tale to tell? And, what was his real purpose for being here. "Why do I not believe you?" I probed, "What does that bus run on? Wait...Let me guess. Marijuana? LSD? Mad Dog 20/20?"
Kevin glanced from side to side and whispered, "Angel Dust."
I knew it. I knew Kevin was tripping on something.
Kevin laughed, seemingly at himself, and continued in a jovial tone, "I'm kidding, man, my bus runs on regular leaded gasoline just like everything else."
I decided for my own entertainment purposes to humor Kevin. I asked him to wait while I went to to see if I had the vacuum tubes he was looking for. And, in the freshest pile of junk on my work bench, I found the tubes that Kevin sought. I returned to Kevin and handed him the tubes, which he examined briefly, thanked me, and remarked that I was outta-sight or something. I followed Kevin to his bus where he unplugged and removed an orange metal box from under the dash. Using a wood-handled screwdriver, Kevin removed the cover from the box, then asked if he could borrow a soldering iron. Not wanting to miss out on Kevin's fascinating activity, I quickly fetched my soldering iron and a drop cord for Kevin. When I returned, Kevin was sitting in the back of his van rummaging through a five-gallon bucket, half-full of nuts, bolts, electrical parts, and whatnot. While Kevin was occupied, I examined the orange box without touching it, of course. The box contained an electrical chassis with a half-dozen vacuum tubes and other components mounted to it. It was obviously a home built device using salvaged parts. I did not, however, see anything that might enable Kevin's bus to traverse the dimension of time.
"So how does this thing work?" I asked.
"I can't tell you that," Kevin explained as he removed the box from in front of me and began fiddling in in. "That knowledge in the wrong hands would be disastrous."
I could see his point, but I still did not believe him. I did not press the matter. Instead, I probed, "Why vacuum tubes? You know they make transistors now, right? They even made them way back in 1966. Have you considered upgrading those fragile old tubes to something a bit more durable?"
"I tried, man. For some reason semiconductors don't survive the trip. A split second into the flux and they go up in smoke. What a bad day that was." he sighed, "You haven't seen a bad day until you get stuck between them. Hey man, you wanna beer?"
Why the hell not, I supposed, at least I'll get something for those useless old tubes, "What you got?"
"There are some National Bohemian's in a cooler in the back of the bus. Bring me one too, man."
In the back of the bus I located a old metal, Coca-Cola cooler and removed two coldish brews. I handed one to Kevin and noticed something peculiar when I went to open mine. "Pull tab? How long have you had these beers?"
"I picked them up at the corner grocery this morning."
For a moment I pondered the improbability of Kevin having an antique cooler in pristine condition, which just happened to be half-filled with antique cans of National Bohemian beer in this current year of 2007. What if Kevin really did come from 1966? No way, what a preposterous thought. I resolved to say nothing more and sip my beer while Kevin installed my tubes in his electrical apparatus. When he was done, he returned the box to its former place, under the dash of the bus. "There. She's as good as new," Kevin stammered.
"Great. Fire it up and let's see what she'll do," I suggested expectantly.
"I should rest up first," Kevin replied, "I've had a long day and I'm exhausted. Say, would you mind if I crashed here in your driveway overnight? I'll head out first thing in the morning."
"I'm not sure if I know you well enough for a sleepover," I suggested.
"I'm harmless, my friend. I have a simple message to deliver when the Directorial Guardian System goes down in 2069," Kevin paused and wiped sweat from his brow using a monogrammed handkerchief, "Hey, You want to hear about the devices the Feds used used to screw over the American people?"
"Sure, why not," I replied and finished off my beer.
I invited Kevin into my basement dwelling where where we would be more comfortable. Kevin lugged his cooler of beer with him and we sat at my folding card table. Kevin parked the cooler of beer on the floor where we could both reach it. I grabbed a fresh beer from the cooler, "Where are you from, really?" I asked, "and please don't say 1966."
"I grew up right here in Madison, North Carolina. I moved to California in 1964 though," Kevin said while eyeballing my collection of record albums on the bookshelf, "Mind if I look at those records, man?"
"Help yourself. So, if you don't mind telling, how did you end up with a time-traveling micro-bus?"
Kevin began flipping through my albums while he explained, "Albert Einstein, man. I was struggling through physics at the university. I really wanted to understand Einstein's theories but, for the life of me, I could not wrap my head around that shit. One day, my lab partner slipped some LSD in my drink during lunch. When I got back to the physics lab that acid hit me like a load of rocks. I was sprawled out on the classroom floor staring up at the blackboard covered with Einstein's formulas. And as I stared at that board, man, the letters and the numbers and the lines, they morphed and rearranged themselves in a way that I could see it plainly. I couldn't believe it, man. I squinted and rubbed my eyes a few times and my vision was still there. I scrambled for a pen and found one under the teacher's desk next to a fuzzy gumball, but I had left my damn notebook at lunch, so I took off my shoes and wrote my vision on them," Kevin paused, examining a particular album from the shelf, "Far out, man. You have Iron Butterfly's, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. I can't wait till this comes out. I hear its got some good vibes, man."
"Oh yeah, It undeniably has vibes," I remarked taking a swig from my beer. "So, what were you saying about those devices? The ones that screwed the Americans over?"
Kevin turned his attention away from my records and told me his rendition of what the future held for the United States. Naturally, I did not believe a word of it. However, from the way Kevin articulated his ideas, it was obvious that he had a great deal of thought invested them, perhaps a bit too much thought If you ask me. Kevin began with what he described as the Transitional Age spanning the decades between 1990 and 2020. During that time the United States was transitioning into a paperless society. By 2020 nothing was being printed on paper anymore--not even money. Physical money was replaced with a government issued SID Card. The SID Card (Secure Identity and Data Card) was an all-in-one replacement for the Social Security card, driver's license, and banking cards. With the SID Card, money was a numerical value stored in the card's memory and backed by a verbal promise issued by the Treasury Department. The SID Card recorded and maintained every financial transaction of the card owner. Personal identity and medical records were also stored in the SID Card. For security, the SID Card featured thumbprint identification technology that prevented anyone other than the owner from activating or using the card. The IRS praised the SID card and non-physical money for making undocumented financial transactions impossible. Gone were the days of tax cheaters, or anybody else, being paid under the table. The SID Card also eliminated the need to file taxes or understand complicated tax laws. Applicable federal, state, and local taxes were automatically calculated and deducted from every transaction a person made. Americans and financial institutions alike embraced the SID Card for its cashless convenience. A drawback to the SID Card, however, was that it was just as easy to lose as traditional banking cards and cash. And if you lost your SID Card, it took six to eight weeks to get a replacement.
America's economic prowess grew rapidly under the SID system until greedy criminals exposed its most unsettling flaw. Throngs of people began turning up at hospitals after being robbed of their SID Cards and their thumbs. Needless to say, the people demanded retribution, so the Feds began looking for a safer alternative to SID technology.
In 2024, a young marketing guru named Leroy Huckster developed the ISUCK system. The ISUCK (Implantable Secure Universal Control Key) was designed to replace the SID card and since it was implantable, it was impossible to lose. The implant was a simple outpatient procedure that took no more than ten minutes. A small incision was made into the patient's forehead, and the ISUCK device was attached to the patients skull, using a self-tapping screw. The incision was then sealed with special glue avoiding the need for stitches. Once the incision healed the ISUCK was visually undetectable.
The ISUCK device offered numerous advantages and improvements over the SID card. For security, the only personal information stored on the ISUCK device was the owners Social Security Number. Personal information associated with the Social Security number was maintained at a new data center in Washington D.C., known as the Directorial Guardian System. Thanks to this arrangement, no personal information could be gained by stealing or tampering with the ISUCK device. In order to access one's personal data, a Radio-Frequency Identification (RFID) scanner was used to read the Social Security Number from the ISUCK device. Authorized users could then access personal data associated with the Social Security number on the Directorial Guardian System. As a further safeguard, the owner of the ISUCK device was required to memorize a 4-digit pin number for verification and confirmation purposes.
It goes without saying that the Directorial Guardian data center could store way more information about a person than could be stored on the limited SID Card. In addition to financial records, photo id, and medical records, the ISUCK could also be used to access a person's criminal history, driving records, sexual orientation, religious beliefs, and political affiliations. The Feds praised the ISUCK for its lack of transparency, citizens had no way of knowing what was being stored about them. Regardless, the ISUCK won the hearts of Americans for its liberating convenience, by eliminating the need to carry a physical ID card or wallet. Also, the ISUCK contained a built-in GPS, which added enormous, personal value to the device. Every second, the ISUCK broadcasted a data packet containing the owner's Social Security number and GPS coordinates with accuracy down to a half-inch. This data was automatically routed to, and stored in a persistently updated database, on the Directorial Guardian System. Thanks to this amazing technology, parents could track down their missing children and the Feds could zero in on criminal degenerates in a matter of seconds.
With the full backing of corporate America, the Feds mandated the installation of the ISUCK device in every American. There were no exceptions, not even for law enforcement or those haughty politicians. People visiting the United States from abroad were issued a temporary ISUCK device, in the form of a chunky bracelet, to be worn on their wrist or ankle at all times. And, at the expense of tax-payers, computer and radio equipment to relay ISUCK data to the Directorial Guardian System was installed at every cellular phone tower.
The devastating value of the ISUCK system wasn't fully appreciated until everyone had one and the system was fully operational. Within a few years the ISUCK revolutionized worker productivity in the United States. Crime rates plummeted as ISUCK technology made it nearly impossible for citizens to profit financially from criminal activities. Courts and other government services were replaced with watchdog software that utilized ISUCK data to monitor the flow and behavior of individual persons. For example, the police and highway patrol no longer needed to waste time and effort on speeders. ISUCK traffic monitoring systems used GPS data to track the speed of every citizen. Whenever a citizen was detected as moving faster than the speed limit, fines were automatically deducted from the speeder's bank account and points were automatically applied to the speeder's drivers license. To be fair, the traffic laws were simplified to define a speeder as anyone moving faster than the speed limit. This, of course, meant that every passenger in a speeding vehicle was fined for speeding. Needless to say, the highways became a much safer place.
It wasn't long before retailers and employers realized the value of the ISUCK System. Permission was granted to retailers and employers to utilize ISUCK technology at their facilities provided they complied with the ISUCK Privacy Act. The privacy act made it illegal for personal data to be shared with the general public. Naturally, this made Americans all-the-more confident in the system. However, the privacy act made no claims against using personal data for capital and or personal gains.
Retailers used ISUCK data to track people's purchases and spending habits. Purchasing data enabled retailers to reward their most obedient customers with dazzling offers and discounts. Hand-held RFID scanners were utilized at the checkout to collect money for purchases. The scanner featured a built-in camera to capture a photo of the shopper's face while scanning the ISUCK device. Facial photos were were saved to the Directorial Guardian System along with full details of the transaction for future reference. The Feds found appreciable value in this shopping data. To the relief of humanity, the Feds were able to identify and prosecute degenerates, alcoholics, drug addicts, and closet perverts. During the onset of the ISUCK system, shoplifting surged across the nation. In response, the Feds mandated that security cameras and monitoring equipment be installed in every store. Whenever a shoplifter was detected, he or she was identified through ISUCK data and facial recognition software. The thief was then automatically billed for the stolen item plus a $500 penalty charge. If the thief didn't have enough money in his or her account to cover the stolen goods and the fine, the account was locked until all charges and penalties had been deducted in full. Even the Federal Immigration Department found unexpected value in shopping data. In a nationwide effort to rid the country of illegal immigrants, an ISUCK scanner was mandated at the entrance of every retail store. Anyone caught entering a store without an ISUCK device was arrested and promptly deported.
Employers installed ISUCK monitoring equipment at their facilities for safety and time keeping purposes. The ISUCK equipment enabled employers to track workers in real time. This freed employees from having to deal with time wasting activities like punching time clocks. With the ISUCK system, employees were only on the clock as long as they were in their designated working area. Whenever the employee moved outside of his or her work area they were automatically clocked out. By merely clocking employees out whenever they went to the bathroom, companies realized significant gains in employee productivity. Employee work attendance was another area that showed significant improvement. Employers were able to check the location of workers who called in sick to make sure, they were at home, and in bed. With the ability to monitor employees in and out of work, employees had no choice but to comply and do their best at all times.
By the year 2030, America was ailing with discontent. There was a growing number of people who flat-out refused to conform and participate in the ISUCK regulated society. To the Feds, this was a baffling phenomena. These non-conformists were unfazed by threats of legislation or taxation. U.S. Treasurer, David Goldman, concluded that the non-conformist were mentally defective, claiming that it was impossible for humans to live without money or disposable goods. Within months, groups of non-conformist collaborated to form the USUCK Coalition. The USUCK Coalition divided itself into various communes around the nation to live off the land and trade amongst themselves. Naturally, the Feds responded by outlawing the unethical practice of free trade in America. Rapidly, the prison systems overflowed with members of the USUCK Coalition. This brought the Feds, face to face, with a new dilemma: What do we do with these non-conformists who are useless to the advancement of our society? President, Leroy Huckster answered that question at the National Labor & Work Convention, "To those who are not willing to surrender to our goals and objectives, I hereby condemn you a life of serfdom. You will be exiled to the newly drafted Badlands where you will be enslaved to labor for the common good, of the common man." The crowd at the conference roared and cheered in thunderous agreement and thus marking the birth of a new era in American history.
On July 4, 2030, the Feds unanimously voted to divide the United States between the East and the West. The lands east of the Mississippi River became known as the industrial states of East America. East America became the new home for every federally approved business and legal citizen from the old, U.S. of A.. At the time, it was prophesied that the ISUCK would create a society of absolute subjection. And, with the non-conformist out of the way, this new society of East Americans would build the most advanced and lucrative industrial empire under the sun. In anticipation of the forthcoming industrial revolution, twenty-one nuclear power plants were built and distributed evenly in the East to power the new age industrial machine.
The lands to the west of the Mississippi were taken by the Feds and became known as the Badlands. All prisons, prisoners, illegal immigrants, and members of the USUCK Coalition were exiled to work in the labor camps of the Badlands. Anyone condemned to the Badlands had their ISUCK device removed because Badlanders were not allowed to have money or a government issued identity. The process of removing the ISUCK left a visible scar on the forehead, making it easy to identify Badlanders if they happened to escape back to the East. In the Badlands, every man, woman, and child was forced to labor every day, from sunrise to sunset, until death relieved them of their duty. Initially, the duties of the Badlander were labors deemed too harsh or dangerous for the East American ideal. All agriculture, logging, mining, oil and gas production, product testing, human experimentation, and high-risk manufacturing were outsourced by East America to the Badlands. Because of the Badland's disposable and free labor, East Americans enjoyed cheap housing, cheap food, and most importantly, cheap gasoline. Badlanders were not allowed to own or possess anything except their government issued coveralls, boots, and unisex underwear. Radios, televisions, computers, and phones were strictly forbidden from the Badlands as information was deemed harmful to morale. President Leroy Huckster put it like this: "For the common man, all knowledge leads to suffering; it is only through ignorance that the common man shall find bliss."
With the non-conformists out of the way, the Eastern Americans were free to build their industrial empire; in reality, things didn't work out that way. The East did not develop into the prime mover of the industrial world as prophesied. Instead, East America became a society consumers. No red-blooded, East American would ever admit it, but by the year 2040, the East was dependent on the Badlands for the necessities of life. The problem was basic economics. Thanks to slave labor, it was far-cheaper to manufacture products and goods in the Badlands. Unsurprisingly, the Badlands is where the industries went. The East Americans were well aware of this irony, but rather than address it, they collectively turned their backs to the issue. Nevertheless, with a steady stream goods coming from the Badlands, The East Americans were free to forge their own kind of utopia. A utopia where reality was whatever you chose to make of it. As a result, the philosophy of labor changed in East America. "Work is for barbarians, why should we work?" was the pressing question at the National Labor & Work Convention of 2042.
The next decade saw a sharp decline in the population of the Badlands. The elders were dying off and there were not enough criminals or degenerates being arrested in the East to replace them. The Feds knew that they could not maintain the lifestyle of abundance in the East if they did not exile a bunch of citizens to the Badlands. "It's for the common good of the people," the Feds insisted, but the citizens vehemently disagreed. President Leroy Huckster devised a solution that he asserted was equal and fair for everyone. A new piece of software was added to the Directorial Guardian System known as the Social Worth Validator. A person's Social Worth was a numerical value between 0 and 100 that gauged an individual's usefulness to society, against a standard set forth by the Feds. Everyone began life with a score of 100. For every infraction an individual committed, points were deducted form their Social Worth based upon what that infraction was. All infractions remained on a citizen's record for a period of seven years. If a citizen's Social Worth dropped below 70 points, that citizen was arrested and exiled to the Badlands--for life. Thousands of citizens marched to the White House to protest the Social Worth Validator. President Leroy Huckster set the protestors straight and dispersed the angry crowd with a single deceleration, "Opposing the government, is a 30 point infraction." Exactly as prophesied, the society of absolute subjection became the new reality for East America. The Feds celebrated Leroy Huckster as the greatest visionary of all times and proclaimed him King of the East American Empire.
According to Kevin, there wasn't much to tell about the following years. He said just imagine yourself in that situation. As an American you could only exist in one of three realities: 1-You could be a mental slave to the ISUCK System, 2-You could be a physical slave to the Badlands, or 3-You could be dead.
Kevin finished his beer and ended his apocalyptic story with this, "In 2069 an event occurs that turns the world upside down. And in the morning, I've got to deliver a message. For now, my friend. I'm beat and I need to get some sleep."
I begged Kevin to tell me about this event and message, but he would not budge. After that, Kevin went out to his van and I fell asleep on my couch.
When I woke up, Kevin was outside fiddling with something under the hood of his bus.
"Good morning, my friend," Kevin said as he noticed me approaching.
"So today is the big day, huh?" I remarked a bit sarcastically.
"I need to make a few minor adjustments, then I'll be out of your hair. Man, I appreciate your help. Do I owe you anything for those tubes?"
"Nope, the beer I bummed off you was worth more to me than those old tubes."
"Groovy man, I don't have a lot of money. There isn't much demand for a hippie physicists--" Kevin stopped working, looked at me, and his eyes lit up. "Hey, why don't you come with me, man. You can witness the storm that changed the world."
"Me? I don't know. I've never been to the future before."
"Come on. It's the chance of a lifetime. After this trip I am retiring my bus. I can have you back here by no later than...now."
Considering I didn't have any plans for the day, I took Kevin up on his offer. I figured we'd never get out of the driveway, anyway.
"Cool, let's get this show on the road," Kevin said as he closed the hood on the bus.
We climbed in Kevin's bus and got situated. Naturally, I fastened my seat belt just in case something were to actually happen. Kevin flipped some toggle switches and turned some dials on a control box made from an old cigar box. After rechecking his settings twice, Kevin pulled out the choke, turned the ignition switch and the engine coughed and sputtered to life. A pungent plume of blue smoke emerged from under the bus but quickly dispersed as he slowly eased the choke back in. Kevin appeared to gleam with pride as the old Volkswagen engine settled into a perfectly smooth idle. Kevin looked at me with grinning teeth and winked, "You ready, man?"
"Turn her loose," I replied.
Kevin grabbed his sunglasses from the dash and put them on then slapped down a big, red mushroom head button mounted on top of the dash. I felt a sinking sensation like the feeling of an elevator starting up. The view from the windows turned into a bright blur of light making me wish I had brought my sunglasses. I heard a mechanical whining sound and noticed that the hands on the old dashboard clock were whizzing around like the blades of a window fan. As the feeling of motion leveled off, Kevin glanced at me and asked, "You wanna beer, man?"
"Didn't we drink them all last night?"
"Indeed we did. I walked over to the convenience store and picked up a case before you came out this morning."
"In that case, sure," I said.
Kevin reached behind the seat and fetched two, ice cold, Pabst Blue Ribbon beers from the cooler and handed one over to me. Unlike the National Bohemian beers from last night, these beers didn't have pull tabs. I popped open my beer and took a swig. "How long before we get there?"
"Oh, not long. Not long at all. Those tubes you gave me are hot."
After a few minutes, that red mushroom head button began flashing. Kevin counted the flashes out loud, and when he got to eleven, he reached over and slapped that mushroom head button again. I immediately felt that moving elevator sensation again and the white light blocking the windows faded into a view of an unfamiliar place.
"We have arrived at our destination." Kevin announced as we got out and stood in front of the bus. It was a beautiful sunny day. We were parked on a grassy field facing a tall, 4-lane, steel bridge crossing a wide river. The road was blocked at the front of the bridge with gates and rifle wielding guards. Above the bridge was a big sign that read: The Badlands - No Admittance! Two lines of semi-trucks were backed up across the bridge as far as I could see. The guards were motioning the trucks through the gates, two at a time. There was no traffic on the lanes leading to the bridge. Across the freeway from us was a large electrical substation situated in front of a nuclear power plant with six, high-reaching cooling towers; rows of high tension power lines extended in a straight-line from the power plant and towards a city skyline in the far distance. "Where are we?" I asked Kevin.
"The Sunshine bridge in Louisiana," replied Kevin, "This is the southern entrance to the Badlands. There are only two other bridges that remain on the Mississippi. All of which are heavily guarded to keep the bad guys out. Or, the good guys in, depending on your perspective." Kevin checked his watch, "Not long now, my friend."
I stood there, watching trucks exit the gate and pass by on the freeway before us. The trucks were all painted red. On the wind deflectors, above the cabs, was a flag painted similar to the American flag. However, in this flag, there was one big star in place of the fifty little stars that I was familiar with. I was about to ask Kevin about it when I was startled by a loud boom coming from the substation across the freeway. A transformer had exploded sending a ball of fire and sparks straight up in the air. And then, two more transformers exploded in the same fashion. The busbars that carried current to the transformers from the power plant were arching across one another. Power lines burned and fell to the ground from the line towers. The semi-trucks on the freeway had stopped. I noticed one of the truck drivers running from his truck and then I noticed that the cab of the truck was on fire. I looked at Kevin and asked, "What the hell?"
"You're witnessing the result of the most powerful geomagnetic storm in modern history," Kevin responded calmly.
"A geomagna...what?"
"A solar storm," Kevin replied, "A coronal mass ejection in the sun's atmosphere sent waves of electromagnet radiation straight to the earth. That energy got induced into the power grid and is overpowering and destroying electronics everywhere."
"But wasn't there a warning?" I asked in disbelief.
"Mother nature has been foretelling this event for aeons. One of the biggest solar storms on record occurred in 1859. It didn't matter so much back then as the power grid and electronics hardly existed. The most that storm did was take out some telegraph equipment and start a few fires. Another solar storm, in 1989, knocked out the power grid in Quebec. Numerous communication satellites have been taken out by similar storms since then. The event you are witnessing now was caused by a much more powerful solar storm.
"What will the people do?"
"What can they do?" Kevin replied, "Without power and communications their infrastructure is dead. And what's worse, the Directorial Guardian data center is a total meltdown; the identities and finances of every East American is now--POOF--gone. Think about it, there are more than 250,000 people in that city over there an not a single one of them has any money to trade for food. Within days that city will devolve into a chaotic fight for survival. It's not a place I'd want to be."
"We can't just stand here? There has to be something we can do. The time machine! Can't we just go back in time and fix the problem? Or, at least warn them?"
"Who are we to say this wasn't supposed to happen? You know, we're not supposed to be here. There really isn't anything we can do for them. And as far as warning them, it's pointless, you cannot reason with people who reject reality."
"But, they will rebuild, right?" I cried in frustration, "We can bring computers, back from a few days ago in the bus. Wouldn't that Help them get their data back?"
"Rebuild? Those people are became consumers not builders. Remember my experiment with transistors in the time machine? Semiconductors can't survive the trip. Yes, we could bring computers back but, they will not work when we get them here. Can't you see? If they rebuild the system they became dependent on, they will eventually succumb to the same fate. I came here only to deliver a message, then I can drop you off in 2007, and I can return to 1966."
"Isn't it a bit late for that now?" I blurted.
"We're right on time. Hop in the bus."
We climbed in the bus and Kevin began setting the dials and switches on the cigar box.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Across the river to the Badlands to inform the superintendents of this catastrophic event and to tell them that they are now free from subjection. The East American Empire has fallen."
"I don't understand."
"The society that enslaved the people of the Badlands inadvertently gave them a special gift."
"What's that?" I asked confused.
"They gave them the ability to live without the machines."
Posted: March 13, 2024, 1:55 am
While writers are out there writing, it seems us procrastinators are bent and determined to avoid writing at all costs. In life, my counter-productive experiences have taught me that procrastination and distraction are perfect soulmates, one cannot survive without the other. For as long as we are conscious, we must do something, even if that something, is to sit and think about doing nothing. When I choose distraction over writing, I am not doing so because I dislike writing, I'm doing so because being distracted is less painful than writing. It was through these realizations that I was able to will myself from the stronghold of distraction and write this brief guide in hopes of inspiring a word or two.
As writers, we are woefully aware that the writing process begins with an idea. We are also know that ideas only come from those places we never look. We beg of the muses and we query the search engines, but those are hopeless endeavors. Our quest for an idea becomes so desperate that we devolve until we find ourselves scrolling an absurdly long list of writing prompts. Every single time I reached the bottom of that list, I came to the same conclusion: Writing prompts are about as useful to writing as a fork is to eating soup. My advice, get up, and go for a walk. To attract ideas, I have to get out of my secluded mind and into reality. Yes, reality is a scary place, but reality is where the unfamiliar occurs. Experiencing the unfamiliar leads to questions, questions lead to ideas, and for the writer, ideas keep us dutifully binge-typing for weeks.
Once adequately burdened by idea, the procrastinator can move on to the planning stage of writing--or not. The amount and type of planning depends on the idea and scope of our writing project. I have found that a long, drawn-out planning stage can be detrimental to the writing process. If one isn't careful, one can plan their writing out of existence before the first word is written. Creative writing is a personal endeavor and if you want to hold your ideas true to your vision, you'd be wise to keep your ideas to yourself. Seriously, work out your ideas and see where they lead before seeking the ruthless opinions of others. Nothing kills an idea faster than sharing it. It is futile to ponder why, just understand that people have a peculiar tendency to undermine ideas that are not their own.
Also, in the planning stage, we shall consider and perform any research necessary for our project. Keep in mind that, research is subjective. If one is to write about Athens, Greece, one could explore the shelves of their public library, or one could travel to Greece and spend a months long vacation exploring Athens itself. Only you can decide which method would be more fruitful for your writing. Whichever the case, we will have to begin recording our ideas at some point. Some authors like to craft a detailed outline of their plots and happenings. A well-structured outline can define order and illustrate the grand scheme of your design. My advice, don't get trapped by the mechanics of planning. If you have ideas, write them down, the order or format does not matter. Forget grammar, punctuation, and spelling; get those ideas recorded before you get distracted and forget. If you do not capture your ideas, what will you have left to work with?
Once the planning stage is complete, we must take action and write. Go straight to your computer and ignore those pending notifications and any promotional click-bait that confronts you. Open your favorite text editor, preferably one that doesn't generate its own click-bait. In this age of Immaculate Distraction, personal computers and the Internet exist only for the purposes of chronic distraction and combative commerce. Beneath these dark clouds of digitized oppression, us writers must remain steadfast and diligent as we pour the truth of our souls into the prose of fiction. We can start with a word, a phrase, or a paragraph. We can start at the beginning, the middle, or the end. It doesn't matter; just start writing. What we don't want to do, is to sit and idly stare into the void of a blank screen; you know the place, that infinite chasm where the only detail is a cursor, which sits there, blinking silently, mocking the passage of precious time. How many blinks does it take before our mind ponders to the kitchen for a snack, or we cave to our insatiable desire to check those notifications? Not many. So just type something, anything, even if it's absolute nonsense, and keep typing until something clicks. Remember always, a blank screen is a front for a mind seeking distraction.
The modern writer faces an unusual conundrum that has become a form of procrastination in itself. Amongst the vast sea of available text editors, the writer stops, and asks: Am I using the right App? I interpret this question like this: Is this text editor grand enough for the likes of me? Perhaps the current editor or App lacks those essential features like Word Count or Dark Mode. My advice, the perfect text editor does not exist. For the love of Zeus! People used to write on paper, spell check was a five-pound dictionary, search was a desperate game of Word Find, and word count was a guesstimate based the number of pages strewn around the room. If your text editor is preventing you from writing, consider exchanging it for paper. And, if that paper proves more suitable, grab a pen and start writing. Use whatever tools are at your disposal. The whole point of writing is writing. A writer knows that he or she must get the words out of their head in order to make room for more. Have you ever seen a writer's head explode? Me either. So, stop procrastinating and start writing.
Posted: March 2, 2024, 1:37 am