Story the Third

Crazy things have been happening recently.

An excerpt posted two weeks ago in the New York Times . . .

Translation of Oldest Writing Progresses

At a press conference yesterday, archaeologist Damien Daley of The Old Way Institute declared to have unraveled a partial translation the first myth ever written. The Old Way Institute, a foundation dedicated to the discovery and preservation of ancient texts, funded Mr. Daley's travels to Tibet last year, where he discovered the Shywŏn wall. The Wall, as it is popularly known, is considered the oldest writing in the world by most experts. At a size of forty feet by five hundred feet, the colossal wall contains more glyphs than would be needed to record the Torah in ancient Egyptian.

Whether the Wall retells an ancient myth or, as believed by a new fringe religious group, "Xanthos' Hands", portends the fall of humanity, remains to be seen. However, Mr. Daley relates happy news: "I'm fantastically exhilarated to have worked on this project. The translation of the wall proves to be a challenge, but we're up for it at the Institute. I am personally astounded by the relation of the myth found on the Wall to the current state of the world. Also amazing is the progression of the seminal character Xanthos from what is obviously a tribal chief to a legendary King Arthur-like character."

The following is an excerpt from the stone (all words presented as "word1/word2" are alternate translations, and all italisized words are included for the ease of the reader).

. . . Xanthos is his name. He ruled the whole expanse/plain/valley with a stringent law: only the weak live. Any warrior who failed in battle was exalted/progressed above his foes. For in this way all respect/tribute was given to Xanthos . . .

. . . Xanthos be praised/revered/honored for his wisdom. Surely the seven/forty-nine/two hundred forty-three wives of Xantos are beloved and continually pleased. All who live under/in subject to Xanthos receive the wages/work of others . . .

. . . The nation/city/tribe who follows Xanthos receive from his wisdom. He has made from many tribes, one tribe . . .

. . . Cursed be the nation/city/tribe who follows Parthen. Xanthos triumphed over this brother early, to lead all tribes . . .

. . . Xanthos the great hunter/warrior will awake from (the) thousand season sleep. When he sees that too long in wood/forest/wilderness the he, the hunter/warrior slept/died/laid down, he will return. His nation/city/village was gone by flood/storm of great water/mud/volcano. He will rebuild it from the bones of his foes. The lizards/dragons/giants of the deep/ancient lore will be feasted upon by his tribe. He made them all, the liars and those not of his tribe are the only ones who deny Xanthos created all tribes . . .

Said Mr. Daley: "It is fascinating to discover so much legacy of a historic figure preserved in one location! We at the Institute expect . . .

Another clip from a gossip column by Sally Fairstump that appeared in that week's edition of People concerning the same vein:

What hath Mr. Daley wrought?

In the American pantheon a new cult emerges. What are we to make of these Xanthos' Hands? Somewhat older odd followings are noticing their coffers and membership rolls depleting, especially of celebrities and other famous figures.

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And speaking of Xanthos, what a busy boy he will be! Already slated for two documentaries and a full length movie, this character has been rediscovered in style. Given the controversy, whomever lands a role in this upcoming summer blockbuster Xanthos Reborn is sure to take home the Oscar . . .

If it wasn't enough, Tom Frledmand weighed his oppressive op-ed opinion in the Wall Street Journal:

Cult Certain to Cause Economic Depression

With their insistence on Communistic philosophies, Xanthos' Hands are guaranteed to cause havoc in the financial markets. And as witnessed in 2008, when the financial markets are disturbed the rest of the world bears the burden.

With the flight of federal government officials, CEOs and stock traders to join Xanthos' Hands, the views of a translation of an ancient document are surely to become relevant in the lives of everyday Americans. Most disconcerting is the recent passage of the Tockton, Muir, and Geebs bill through the house, which gives virtually unlimited taxing powers to the Senate. It is a virtual nationalization of all markets in the United States . . .

Just from what I've seen, people are getting really scared. The prices of guns and, especially, ammunition have increased forty-fold since that blasted document was translated. My wife is inquiring finally how to use that pistol we bought six years ago for her to learn to shoot on. The media speaks of nothing else. People are wearing those confounded pink hooded robes to work, to the store, to play golf. I really don't know how I'm going to explain to my youngest son that his older sister decided to join the "Pinkies."

Please tell me in the comments what you think of this situation. Is there anything that can be done to turn this tide of malevolence?

Story the Second

You really want to know why I look so funny?

It's pretty simple. Like all great stories, it happened.

I didn't apply myself, and my brain ran away.

Slipped right out of my head one night, walked away on the two halves of the cortex, the cord like a tiny dancer with ridiculously swollen legs.

My mother always warned me that this would happen, in her never-breathy Estonian accent, the aural equivalent of a mind-numbing Priit Prämcartoon. "Son, eef you do nut stup reeding you mental junk fuud, you mind weel run way!"

Well mom, jokes on me, as they say.

I'm not sure I understand exactly what happened. One minute I'm having a pleasant dream about life as a centaur, chasing down an ice cream truck. The ice cream woman get out and gives me the cheapest ice cream sandwich they have.

At that point, I see my brain in my dream. He looks over to me and says, "Listen here now. You've known how to lucid dream since you were five. You spend all this time chasing down ice cream trucks. For heaven's sake, you're a neurosurgeon. Why don't you figure out how to save some lives, rather than wasting away your time fiddling with horse hooves."

"You're one to talk!" I yelled back, "always making me daydream or forget important things. Where were you with Melissa's birthday? Sure dropped the ball on that one, didn't ya!"

Obviously frustrated, my brain exclaimed, "That's it Harold. I'm leaving you. I'm not having this conversation again. Good bye."

And with that, he woke me up as slapped me from inside, slid out my left ear, and walked off.

I didn't sleep a wink that night. Still haven't. Apparently you need the melatonin to get on a regular sleep-cycle. The drugs don't have enough oomph to put me to sleep, so I lie in bed in a stupor.

But living without a brain, it's really not too bad. Adjusting was hard at first--I would forget the time or continually try to walk through walls like some poorly programmed NPC AI character. Of course I couldn't continue to work as a neurosurgeon. Hospital HR told me their on-retainer psychiatrist Ted banned me from working--I suppose he was worried I would experience too much mind-envy while working under the dura mater. Instead, the hospital has me working in the janitorial department. Ted mentioned in his assessment that it wasn't anything personal, but that the hospital couldn't be liable for consequences of what he framed as "domestic disputes."

Oh, there's no animosity anymore. I understand he's gone off to do wonderful things. Found a cure for astigmatism and for male-pattern baldness. We both knew he is destined for great things.

I write him every once in awhile, but all I ever get in return is a lousy autograph or a letter from his publicist. It's like he's completely forgotten where he came from.

But he did add me a friend on Facebook, so that's something. Maybe I'll tell him about the songs I put on MySpace. I doubt he'll care. I'll just autopoke him instead. Ah, Facebook.

Well, that's it. I'm going to get a sandwich now. Goodbye.

Story the First

Crap.

The network is down again. Stupid university IT departments. Wherever I give lectures, nothing changes. Even in Canada.

I have less than a hour before my presentation. My slides float etherally on the cloud, inaccessible. Doodling the dynamics of cognitive metanetworks on an interactive whiteboard or (even worse) a decrepit, ancient projector never translates to a devout congregation. I need my slides!

Okay, call their IT department. Where is that number again? Ah! On the network that's down.

Maybe my phone will have signal in this dungeoun, get the net . . .

Nothing.

Okay, breath, I can still do this. Just go upstairs, out of the glass atrium entrance, and I can download a copy locally. I can do this.

Elevator seems to be out of order . . . typical.

Stairs it is.

Hmmph, here comes the scaly McBride again. 'Dr. Dwells, I respectfully agree to disagree to your proposal. No way can your model be accurate. We know that if cognitive networks exist at all, they are self-aware.' Liar. A charlatan to his own profession, that one. Glad he's a wet-blanket--no one has paid attention to his papers or conference talks for years.

Stairs are good for him. Fat punk.

He seems out of breath, though. A little flush. Ah well, stairs are good for him.

What the . . . he just fell down. Is he having a heart attack? Those two TAs will take care of him--I have my presentation to worry about. Serves him right, all those extra donuts. I'll just squeeeeze ooooon by . . .

Okay, two more floors to go. Hey, that's odd. My ears feel funny and cold. Is that air conditioner on full blast in the middle of February? Canucks, who would have known, aye. You'd think with the advances with intelligent design of buildings, we'd know not to turn on the cold during deep chills in winter.

'Save the Kodiak bears!' That poster gets me every time. Those clones in the zoo are fine enough--everyone knows global cooling will take the rest of them in the next 20 years. Even though they were saying the same thing 20 years before with the supposed global warming. They must have put up a million satellites to track animals like that during the global warming scare. Didn't hurt though--now we have 10 TB signal from our smart phones, wherever we go. I remember when Google and Microsoft battled for the cloud, man, those were crazy times to be a teenager.

Ah, here I am--atrium at last. What the . . . still no signal. Maybe I'll try outside.

Huh? What is that on fire out there? Is that an autocar? Why are they piling up at that red light? Why aren't the traffic grids halting them? Maybe their server crashed too . . . wouldn't that be the day. Hope those people are okay.

Holy crap! Am I seeing this? Looks like a million stars falling out there--are we due for any meteor showers?

Oh yeah, smart phone.

Nothing again.

Wait . . .

The battery is getting low. How does that work? I'm right undereath the microwave transponder--I should have full power.

Is that the popping sound I hear? Yowza! I better get out of here!

Why isn't anything working? Wait, was McBride having a real heart attack down there? I heard a caveat to a nasty rumour that his pacemaker uploads to the cardiologist for constant monitoring--did his pacemaker fail like the traffic grid and the university network?

Was McBride right?

Did the internet gain self-awareness?

Surely not. What would it say, 'all your base are belong to us'? Self-aware cognitive metanetworks--what a sham.

But still . . .

Did the internet just kill itself?

Introduction

I need an outlet for my stories. Here it is. Please feel free to comment or give ideas. I may someday print these in a magazine or a book. Let me know if you think it's worthwhile.