Goodnight Auburn Hair: And Other Stories
She remembered how she would be led down the wrong alleyways looking for French folk music, sometimes running across things that were technically Cajun in sound. When she listened to some of these, it was somewhat understandable how some of these would be mostly forgotten; many of them sounded more annoying than charming. It was difficult for herself to find time to journal, do to the time she spent listening to Pedro Gene instead. Her favorite song was Camarao a Gosto, about the only context she would listen to the banjo. Instead she preferred listening to a mixture of La Meiso Japanaise et La Furamenko in most other contexts. She imagined robot girls with large flowers in their hair, letting them ride her like show ponies down the track of pillows on the bed. And in this bed, she dreamed of walking through abandoned city alleyways, with libraries whose windows let to different locations in each of their books.
One location was the New Mexico desert, and the other the Cathedrals of Alsace, blending rather than having a clear learn where one ended and the other suddenly stopped. She ate Filet Mignon with Soy Wine Coffee sauce, and disliked the halls of paintings that filled the restaurant the night before. But tomorrow would be loud music in the halls, thus she needed to go to bed soon. She went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Bonne nuit for silent nights.
She dreamed of rows of forest trees, swaying in the breeze; she dreamed of midnight elves wandering the stones. In the silence of the trees, one could hear others voices in the night, like an ultra realistic virtual reality headset. She wanted to make a bet with herself, how much longer till the drop; her life was not a one stop shop, or anything else: it was the flow of blood down the cheeks flowing down forever.
Tip toes in the darkness under the late sunset, corpses laying down upon the floor under the layers of snow. Raining down from the sky, the ash from the once magical volcano, piling like layers of blood on the floor. This is not the pages of a never ending story or a children’s fantasy novel, but the torn sheets of the book of life. Cutting through the dreams like a dulled utility knife; griswire nonchalantly tied together in knots. All the time in the hidden pit under the Earth filled with ancient circuitry; all the thousands of years under the ground she slept, and waiting for mankind to reemerge. And yet she feels as if but a distant memory under the forsaken Earth.
-- Mecirigato, comyatte eswa’cere?
-- Da rien.
Two differently languages flowing together like a distant cassette recording by technology that has since evolved into something well beyond after the couple of thousands of years under the ground. Dangling about like a cyborg puppet, hoping not to hang by her neck, fragile like porcelain. Yet even other dolls point the finger at her shame; shame for her appearance, shame for not revealing the hidden child that lay within. Yet the midnight wires brightened that very little bit of day the remained inside the deepest pit of he heart. She had once been a gamer, and yet had been reduced merely to a previously recorded JRPG session, played on a holodeck during the year of 2023. At the time they thought the Earth would no live past the year 2020, and yet somehow it hung on by a thread. But at time she wondered if this was perhaps for the best.
Yet now with her fangs sharper than blades that could cut through metal, she waits for the next robot to take apart in her ancient lab, reusing it part of herself, yet being careful to upload the consciousness into scanned brain of its formal innocuousness. She remembered the lines from an ancient poem back when the vague memory of the United States was still a thing:
Le beze dekimasu ka? Poniurto la fille amovo oirterru le beze. Eso le frere amovo oirterru le souer, dekimasu ka? Arimasu ka le beze poniurto nousil et nouselle, Dekimasu ka, arimasu ka?
Ponuirto quoni le beze eswa en le jean déchiré, Ponuirto quoni le beze eswa en la jupe déchiré, Poniurto quoni le beze eswa poniurto vous.
Le beze dekimasu ka? Poniurto la fille amovo oirterru le beze. Eso le frere amovo oirterru le souer, dekimasu ka?
Permanently secured by hashing rather than encryption, the only way to know the data being present was some long sense forgotten password, and its knowledge imprinted into her subconscious matrix. In the outside world is medieval peasant, yet under this Earth she rests waiting to come to the surface. She had once been called Hemato, yet not was merely an Ice Queen, scattered into dust, whose memories remained as some obscure illusion on secret networks once known only to different anarcho-espionage sectors of the intelligence world. Floating in a realm of binary streams, she falls off the edge into her own personal madness, hoping that she still had in her to find a way out.
Even if it was some vague hope.
At least it was better than dope.