The Child

“The Child”

By Tonya R. Moore

She closes her eyes and she listens.  It’s like listening to music, slipping into the mind of the Child.  His code has evolved far beyond the technological sophistication of her race; a grand and beautiful stream of consciousness and infinite potential. She speaks out loud as she works because that has become a habit over the years, talking to them – sharing her thoughts and dreams with them.
“What do you see, when you open your eyes?”
She works with a steady hand, praying that she won’t damage the delicate membranes of the brain.  It would be a such a shame if she has to replace what has taken root and helped the child Become.  His eyes are closed.  The mouth moves involuntarily but no sound comes out.  On the terminal screen, he answers her question in code.

Matter. Energy.  All of the minute elements and quantum quirks of the universe coalescing into a perfect, unifying whole.

Her eyes flick to the screen.  She clicks her tongue, mouth curving into a slightly amused smile.  It has taken decades to bring this dream to fruition.  Her lifetime’s work has outlived the heyday of cybernetic engineering and even the legality of robotics.
She completes the upgrades and leaves him before her absence from home is discovered.  Her hands shake as she closes the barn door behind her.  She considers the import of what she has done.  The component that she has installed had not been easy to acquire.  Some impossibly shady dealings and large sums of money had been required.
“What will you become, Adam?”  She wonders out loud.
“What will you fight for?  Who will you love?”

She knows that her actions will not go unnoticed for long.  The authorities will find her but she is an old woman now.  What can they possibly do to her?  As for the Child, he will be long gone by the time they think to come here.

The Child awakens.  His eyes open, quicksilver irises widening.  He stands, like a man – strangely surprised to find himself alone, though he is fully aware that he should be. He walks like a man.  Instinct pulls him, unerringly, to the door.  He turns the knob and suddenly, light floods the darkness.

http://www.tonyamoore.com

The Rain Dancer

The Rain Dancer
By Chris Skoyles

It rained last night, you know.A vast, belligerent rain that trounced through the forest outside my window, destroying every last thing that dared show signs of life, raging with venom and bringing turmoil and apocalyptic anarchy to the otherwise calm forest.Suddenly, she seemed satisfied with her work.

This ferocious rain allowed herself to smile, and she came dancing on my window, inviting me to come play.

I was in a sort of hedonistic state of comatosis; a million and one desires all rushing through my mind with no real place to go, but an urgency to get there. Though I was in this heavy sleep, The Rain continued to dance on my window, seduce me with her sweet smell and entice me with her luscious form.

I couldn’t help but go and play.

I joined The Rain now, dancing hand in hand with a smile, every drop that smacked against the soft, damp floor guiding our rhythm. The Rain laughed, and I laughed along, embracing the cool atmosphere on this blackest of nights and praying that my dance with the majestical rain would never end.

But The Rain, she was schizophrenic, and she changed.

Suddenly, we no longer danced. Suddenly, we no longer embraced the beauty of this blackest of nights. Suddenly, we no longer smiled.

The Rain, however, she turned her lips into a crooked and engagingly sadistic sneer. Her eyes sparkled with a glint of dementia, and her face grew red with a vengeful passion. She flashed her teeth and lashed out.

The Rain smacked me this way and that, against the spiteful, rugged backs of the forest trees and onto the vicious tops of angry rocks.

Soon, The Wind joined in, and the elements came together like a cyclone of thugs, violently kicking and viciously punching, throwing me across the forest and high into the dark sky and dropping me back down to earth with effortless aggression.

The Sun began to rise.

The Wind and The Rain ran for cover, hiding behind some distant mountains. They were scared of The Sun, and fearful of his fantastic fires. They left me to die in the middle of the cold, desolate forest; battered, beaten, bruised and broken.

The Sun tried to help, wrapping me in warm, golden bandages, but I doubt if I’ll ever be restored.

I danced with The Rain; things will never be the same.

*Chris Skoyles is a writer and photographer from Preston Lancashire. His poems and prose have appeared in such magazines as The Ugly Tree, The New Cauldron, Awen and Carrillion. For more info, please visit: www.chrisskoyles.com