These past two weeks we have had a somewhat untraditional prompt, the song “Feed the Machine” by Poor Man’s Poison. Yet this go around, I had the idea nearly simultaneously with me posting our last prompt, so I’ve been itching to share it for more than two weeks. That being said, the story ended up very much with vibes reminiscent of Netflix’s “Black Mirror” and Philip K. Dick’s “Do Android’s Dream of Electric Sheep.”
My story “Rewritten” was born from the harsh experience I had with the passing of my mom at the outset of the pandemic. She’ll be dearly missed, and I dare say, she’d have enjoyed this one.
I was thinking back on all that happened and has happened since then and it started me thinking about how often people feel the pressure or desire to avoid the hard and painful things in life, whether that is burying traumatic experiences or seeking only pleasurable things. What do you think would happen in society today if people were not allowed any time to process the hardest experiences in life?
In an entirely different vein, T’s story has been inspired by recent life events feeling like a series of hard knocks in many ways, and this story formed as he thought about the others who may be graduating soon or have recently graduated. He want to share that yes, life may get rough, but you can handle it. We’re both proud of you!
We’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and if you have any cerebral or sci-fi stories or stories with underlying social commentaries that you’ve written or recommendations otherwise, drop us a line. We’d love to check them out!
The synopses for this week’s stories are:
“Rewritten” by D. N. Ashwell
Therapy is for everyone, especially those struck down by unfortunate circumstances. If you are subjected to the blows of life, the Department of Premature Departure has your back. As a Therapist for the state-funded Care Center, Fatima provides essential care to the emotionally downtrodden and grieving, getting them back up on their feet with just a little tweak of a their memories. But when some of her clients are flagged for re-treatment, she begins to doubt the efficacy of her work and decides to do some digging. Little did she know, what she would find would cast the world in a whole new light.
“The Interview” by T. L. Ashwell
It’s the final interview, the last hoop for Otto to land his dream job, but he’s up against seven others in a challenge for a prized position: a well-paid job, for once. But lo and behold, the interviewers are looking for something different than he expected.
Our prompt for the next two weeks is to write a story about a person who can jump into another’s body for a week, but the other person’s mind is still cognizant.
We officially have a name for our short story challenge: The Ashwell Challenge. All our stories are now being compiled into an anthology, accessible on Wattpad (DiandTi)!
For ease of navigation, we are currently working to title all of our individual stories and working on provide synopses for each. If you prefer reading on this website, all our stories and their blurbs can be found on our Writing Challenge page.
Rewritten
D’s Feed the Machine Story #sci-fi
Rewritten – PDF – Standard Format
The tapping of heels touched off the walls, reverberating in the clean stillness of the midday streets crisscrossing the development. Each home stood along the shoreline in a pristine cleanliness, their dainty windows and delighted façades repeating unit after unit, like a unified front of soldiers lining the coast. Sweeper bots collected debris even beyond notice by the human eyes in the deserted streets, tending the perfectly manicured lawns and acid-washed concrete. Their human counterparts had hours yet before they would return to their homes and disturb their work.
The only movement Fatima could see came from the bots, scrubbing, snipping, shaping with a determined focus only capable of machines. The click of her heels hardly disturbed them, a plump white bot, no higher than her knees, falling into line behind her, its bristles brushing up the microscopic particles of plastic left in her wake as the sidewalk slowly ate away the soles of her shoes. With rapid blinks and glances, an augmented interface flicked through files projected in the corner of her glasses until she landed on the one she searched for, a proud-looking man, who would have been the same age as her father, smiling back at her from his dossier.
Mr. Jim Henderson, senior technical design chief at SiliCo, still years from retirement. Two days ago, his wife and daughter died in a car accident on their way back from the Central Museum, some technical glitch causing the car to accelerate on the turnpike overlooking the sea, launching the two off the edge. The impact alone may have killed them, but more likely, the two drowned. The poor man had been sliding into grief, the world yanked from beneath his feet. The algorithm had been quick to flag him for Therapy.
Fatima blinked away the file as she clicked up the sidewalk to the trim red door of 132nd Seaton Place. Smiling at the little bar centered at eye level, she waved to the Home System, standard on all developments built after the 40s.
“Hello, I’m Fatima, the Therapist dispatched to see Mr. Henderson. The Care Center should have put me on his schedule.”
“Please come in, Miss,” the door swung open as a warm masculine voice with a hint of metallic answered her. A robotic butler approached from a tributary of the foyer, “May I?”
Butler gestured for her jacket, and she shrugged out of it.
“If you would, please follow me. Mr. Henderson is in the backroom. He has really been beside himself since his family has not returned. Have you been furnished with Mr. Henderson’s information?”
“Yes, the Care Center sent the files over on my way here,” Fatima responded, smoothing out her crumpled blouse. She fell into step behind Butler as he guided her through the maze-like halls, at once open, with floods of natural light cascading from high windows, yet somehow confining. The hallways gave way to a great room, its windows like panels holding nature in its picture frame, a small reading nook spanned by a couch plush with pillows and ever more panels of glass, carved out of its center. On the couch, Mr. Henderson lay sprawled, his lifeless eyes gazing aimlessly at the ever-wavering leaves blown by the coastal breeze.
Butler emitted a coughing sound akin to clearing one’s throat, “Pardon my interruption, Mr. Henderson. We have a guest. I will leave you two to get acquainted. Would you like some tea?”
The Butler’s cough stirred Mr. Henderson from his thoughts, and his soul, however pitiful, returned to him momentarily and he sat up.
“Yes, thank you,” Fatima nodded to Butler, “It would be good if you would make a cup for Mr. Henderson, too. He has been through a lot.”
As the Butler wheeled off to his duties, Fatima turned to the disheveled man on the couch. He had managed to get a start of a suit on—his shirt half-tucked and tie hanging loose—or maybe he had been unable to find the will to take his last suit off. Whatever the case, the poor man sat as a shell of himself, the spark drained away from him the moment he had learned of his family’s fate. Life was a cruel mistress, fickle in her tendencies, but she was no longer humanity’s slave driver.
The Dragon's Den 