Friday, November 29, 2013
A simple straight forward rule. Complete missions.
It was given to me by my owner. A human woman that I must call Madame. She has taken care of me since my creation. I saw my parents only once. It was...confusing.
"Say hello to your son. Now say good bye." The first words I heard.
The Madame told me that my real parents were evil people and enemies of the church. Wanted murderers of mass destruction. Monsters of the universe. I was unwanted.
I was only hours old when this happened. Complete missions.
I was given my first book, "Basic Combat Tactics", my first mission was to read and learn, I will be tested in one day.
My room. A 20ft x 20ft square made of strange black stone. The ceiling was a synthetic airtight window showing the blackness of space. My eyes focused intensely, turning them into high powered telescopes, seeing hundreds of stars and mass objects.
My favorite was a galaxy. Spiraling clockwise. Brilliant shades of milky blue.
8. Orion Spur
Eight arms, I counted.
"My first friend."
I now focused on my book. Complete missions.
"My first mission."
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
The first moments.
They were numb. Under and over.
Thinned out like butter on too much bread. Under and over.
Trying to move was like climbing a mountain. Under and over.
Trying to construct a thought was confusing. Under and over.
As I wove things became eazier, but only just. Under and over.
Red and black started to form and feelings of emotions started to become noticeable. Under and over.
Panic. It's too much. My first thought. Under and over.
The cold rushed through my lungs, Shocking my body. My first breath.
I was done.
My first time seeing them was the last.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
The past, my past, well more like his past. His people I never knew but I know who they were. Seeing photos of them is not the same as seeing the real them.
"Old stories told by old men." My father told me, dismissing story of his past. He started another story not of his past but from anothers. I sat quietly, listening to my father's tale. Learning its secret meaning but I was curious. Do all old men tell old stories? And are the old stories not of the pasts of the old men that tell them.