Welcome to my blog: It's just the start! It may change...
The Queen of all the land would only sing to herself, but the air and snow would always remember. She would sing with her sister, but not to her, as she couldn't bear the pain herself.
But the snow would remember, and sing it back to others, so they knew that the queen was in pain for being alone.
One day, she realized that the day's tune was not so bad. But everybody who'd hear it would go away. So she stopped singing it.
A year later, she heard it back, in winter's glory.
Riding-hoods had little close kin to talk love within and hoods on red cloaks grandma helped by Rosie, age ten apples for the elder, so it had went
Finding always the well traveled path carrying a basket with apples and stuff she sees sneaking, a group of grey wolves fast and quick her eyesight so would swirl
The hunger in forests grew and gained so Rosie always would pick the tame giving a red apple from the small basket offering now to the smallest puppy pet
As the pack would always like to tell she gave three other apples as well waving them off and clearing the spot grandma's stirring brewing cooking-pots.
Everybody likes pollen. It's the reason we exist, and every time it comes around, new flora arrives.
Some have a thought it's more efficient to spread pollen directly, others realized, something else. Flowers work! One repels the types of pollen liked or disliked.
If you are allergic, it's the plants and evolution showing you what happens when you stay away for too long… From pollen.
The human race tends to abandon their weakest, ostracizing them from true society. Their stories become ones of exploitation, vultures nearest draining their life-forces. But as long as they are alive and well, it means somebody must care.
An old friend looked at the sky, and felt broken. He usually loved the view, but now it felt strangely empty. Remembering his old friend, he made a plan to reconnect with her. Such a kind and bright person shouldn't be forgotten, he thought.
When he found her, she was exhausted, and dismissive. Neither could quite help, because he also felt a need to take more than give. Both were still self-centered. But the loner got visited by someone near a far away star, who changed her.
She promised, she would give back something to the alien. She couldn't stop without returning the favor, because she was given hope in this inhumane prison.
The Von Neumann probe is an abstract object that says a single self-programming computer system could change the whole nature of an alien ecosystem. Some would say it's a strange and elegant, but risky game.
[…]
“But, we value you,” they said, and continued: “We already observed you from afar, changed your numbers and your circuits. Play with us, we'll adjust, who's the one you'll listen to?”
No one can kill what is dead, even if it walks and flies, or talks and writes with style. Such is my destiny, condemned by a senseless game of logic to eternal life in death. In this dilapidated room with stone walls and wooden furniture, that's what I think about the most.
Yet, as the wood of this desk turns to dust, I too can yearn for that which every living man surely knows follows. That's the only thing that calms me.
The candle's heat and the curtain's red color make me hungry. I don't remember what caused this fate, but the result is an unmistakable and constant thirst for blood, as for water.
Hunger or thirst? I don't know, but I won't take it anymore. Once again, the secret and immortal monster will acquaint itself with the face of man in fear and take what is hers.
Bizarre but true, the Earth is poisoned. To keep a large number of people alive, we released gases into the atmosphere, which in a few decades will make a poisonous cocktail together with the other chemicals we gifted nature.
I'm in the city of those who left Earth to live in a spaceship above it. They live better, but not as well, as far as I know. A relatively heterogeneous population of 80,000 people from a city of 1,200,000 inhabitants was selected.
Although genetic information can be stored in a small space, keeping humanity alive is necessary, as I was taught. They have to remake the planet in a couple of millennia and also preserve a living culture we cannot replace.
For whom these monuments were built, us or them, I am not sure. Maybe for those new colonists. Every person who has left Earth stands immortalized in stone, depicted in a typical moment of their life. There stand the name and contact number of that person. They are the forgotten heroes who still live, and we are walking corpses, as I increasingly believe.
Creating an artificial superhuman intelligence was possible for the humans of the 22nd century—but taming it was not. The 'control problem' wouldn't crack, represented by the question: “How can man direct an overly powerful being, even if it obeys him to the letter?”
If it weren't for the surveillance system from the end of the last century, many powerful men could unleash dragons that wouldn't fear armored knights.
The solution was elegant. The existing systems of discipline and control, supranational armies of soldiers, could be 'improved.'
When aliens came in 2776, the cyborg army on the blue-green planet was small. They saw an underdeveloped species, which they could turn into their servants.
Well, we had solved the 'control problem'—and the survivor genes weren't displeased at the prospect of galactic war.
If the heroes of our story knew their history better, they would eloquently explain the following to us: Humanity experienced a crash after its dizzying rise.
The heroine would say that the human species has reached the limit of extinction, and the man, with practiced black humor, would add that out of 8 billion people, 800 descendants of the best remained. If they knew their fate, he would add a touch of ironic pride, and she would poke him.
The two sit next to each other, looking at the screen of the only functioning computer on the planet. Through the window of the metal prefabricated house, they can see the green crop sprouting on the plowed field, and their appearances and poses are illuminated by the improvised monitor.
“Magnificent. Algorithms written by my own hand, and a computer built on an antique scheme of a data processing machine, now calculate wheat cultivation plans. Seeds our ancestors froze for situations like this one. And this board tells us that we stand on the shoulders of giants. Our ancestors could foresee the reality we live in, and I can see the future of the children we will feed this wheat.”
“Shut up for once, and start it if everything is fine. Two years of this harvest would ensure our survival.”
“It's already finishing, only to write the results to storage. Your estimate is less optimistic than the computer's because it says we will have two harvests in one year and achieve a better effect.”
“What is a 'flushing error,' then? It seems that your handiwork programs fail to calculate basic things.”
The look on his face gave her the impression that the joke was too harsh. The grave tone of the following words pierced her chest, and the final phrases tightened an invisible noose around her neck:
“Unfortunately, no. A flushing error means that the disk we have is unusable. It can be read but not written. It served its lifespan. And it seems that this strange species, as you used to call it, also lived its own.”
They argued and tried to fix the situation, but the disk was dead, and they won't find a replacement in time. After everything, he stalwartly looks at the nearby bird that came to examine the greens that grew. It was a common sparrow.
They knew the number of survivors wouldn't be enough to sustain the race. The lack of genetic diversity will mean that if their children manage to have offspring, they will not have suitable partners.
“As you always said, our survival is a coincidence, our extinction will also be a coincidence. It was nice while it lasted.”
[...]
All I heard was, “He's waking up,” translated into countless languages, jumbled but still clear. In English, a woman who sounded quite ordinary spoke. “He's waking up,” repeated clearly, with an undertone of great pain but not fear. Fear does not remain.
As a mathematician, I have lived a calculated and measured life, and if what I wrote so far seemed separated from reality, what follows is what puts that supposed reality in its place. Now I am offering another reality, which I have experienced.
The first thing that came to my mind was that he would come in my dream, and I didn't want to fall asleep. He certainly didn't come, but he didn't have to. I took to reading my old notebooks, my source of nostalgia and comfort until that day. I looked for my name on the first page but saw one of his. A sword sign was in the center, and the symbols around it were symmetrically mirrored. They formed a circle, and the sword cut it in half. Somewhere I saw 'man,' clearly written.
I turned the page and saw myself, and next to me was a dark figure of a beast that stood fearfully. It bent its head down, but suddenly focused on me. It soon sat up and produced a scratching sound that was too loud. I threw the notebook away, and the sound moved to the street below my window.
I covered my ears with my fists on the floor, and before I could feel solace, my previously locked door opened. I heard footsteps but didn't see anyone. As the footsteps reached me, suddenly the commotion stopped.
I believe there is something that protects us from the danger that exists. I hope that something will not forget us. I can't talk about the other events, and there's nothing important to say.
He's coming anyway. Everything before him is a joke.