Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream by Various
Authors: Various
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
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seemed almost to be within arms' reach from the factory's cafeteria window. Though I might never walk those gold-crusted, credit strewn sidewalks in this life-never bask in the Sun, filtered down through the Crack and through UV-shaded, tinted street visors-though I might never stand with my eyes turned crackwards up towards that crimson slash of unbroken sky-though I might never know the pleasures of the sluggish life, the luxurious way, the Aristocrat's world, I could at least see the underside of the life I was struggling towards from the factory's cafeteria window. And that is better than most.
And I could hope.
And I could dream.
And I could wonder.
And I could pray, and wish, and work my fingers to paper-cut nubs and my eyes to myopic, monitor-burned orbs. I could pray that if I gave hard enough, and worked long enough, that-if not in my next life, or the next, or the next after that-that eventually I might be reborn just a level closer, a level higher, a level nearer to the Blessed Ones up on 24-G.
And in this life I could take comfort in my very proximity to 24-G. Unlike the millions of struggling souls in the levels below me, I could actually see what I was striving toward, who I was working for. Sector 24-G was within sight!-infinitely beyond the reach of my undeserving hands, perhaps, but within sight nevertheless.
It even seemed (though I would never voice it externally-or even internally within the nosey earshot of my mandatory neural implant) to be within reach of the grasping, yearning fingers of my soul. Not this incarnation or the next, maybe, but some not-too-distant iteration down the conveyor belt of promised lives. Distant, no doubt. Far off, certainly. But within reach, oh god yes…--
***
Neural Log: 23:62-20-
--Ain't life grand? Without the struggle, without the strife-without want and need and desire and desperation, I ask you, what else is there?
At times (in the secret part of my brain, cloistered away from those probing electronic fingers and eavesdropping sensors of the greedy neural log) I even pitied the elite of Sector 24-G. Can you believe it? Well, I did! They who had it all: everything, every need, every desire, every whim on a string…
Yes, even if I didn't realize it consciously, wouldn't admit it subconsciously, I pitied them, in a way. For at that high a level, what more could came after?
But then, my conditioning kicks in and I rethink my unthunk thoughts. Their Way was not mine to question-for surely, the knowledge to be known at such a level would so far transcend the minds of we the lower level masses that it was foolish to even ponder. The spiritual struggles of Aristocrats on 24-G… One might as wonder how many holo-angels could swing on the tip of a pleasure-needle.
You could never seek to understand them, those angelic denizens of 24-G. You could only want to be them. And that is how it should be. No questions, only answers. Wait and work. Work and wait. Life in Crack City goes on, the obedient ascend, the lazy drift downward. Sink or swim. Work and fly. Think and fall. All is as it should be. Knowledge is a gift. Amen.
This is how I used to think. Until I fell, that is…--
***
Neural Log: 23:62-60-
--I keep blacking out. I'd hit my head in the fall. Or maybe the toxins and the fumes here at the bottom of the lower abyss have overwhelmed me. My muscles and bones ache from the impact. My skin tingles and itches and burns. My lungs are heavy and my lips and nostrils are coated with thick, mucousey carbo-soot. Sick and nauseous, my empty stomach keeps trying to heave out food that isn't there.
And, despite it all, I'm starving.--
***
Neural Log: 23:63-12-
--My neural implant is not working right.
I can feel it not working. Painful clicks deep in the meat in my brain. Intermittent, inconsistent. It doesn't feel like it's broadcasting-the familiar hum of the advertisements and orders, the policies and prayers, is now only static. I feel emptier than I've
And I could hope.
And I could dream.
And I could wonder.
And I could pray, and wish, and work my fingers to paper-cut nubs and my eyes to myopic, monitor-burned orbs. I could pray that if I gave hard enough, and worked long enough, that-if not in my next life, or the next, or the next after that-that eventually I might be reborn just a level closer, a level higher, a level nearer to the Blessed Ones up on 24-G.
And in this life I could take comfort in my very proximity to 24-G. Unlike the millions of struggling souls in the levels below me, I could actually see what I was striving toward, who I was working for. Sector 24-G was within sight!-infinitely beyond the reach of my undeserving hands, perhaps, but within sight nevertheless.
It even seemed (though I would never voice it externally-or even internally within the nosey earshot of my mandatory neural implant) to be within reach of the grasping, yearning fingers of my soul. Not this incarnation or the next, maybe, but some not-too-distant iteration down the conveyor belt of promised lives. Distant, no doubt. Far off, certainly. But within reach, oh god yes…--
***
Neural Log: 23:62-20-
--Ain't life grand? Without the struggle, without the strife-without want and need and desire and desperation, I ask you, what else is there?
At times (in the secret part of my brain, cloistered away from those probing electronic fingers and eavesdropping sensors of the greedy neural log) I even pitied the elite of Sector 24-G. Can you believe it? Well, I did! They who had it all: everything, every need, every desire, every whim on a string…
Yes, even if I didn't realize it consciously, wouldn't admit it subconsciously, I pitied them, in a way. For at that high a level, what more could came after?
But then, my conditioning kicks in and I rethink my unthunk thoughts. Their Way was not mine to question-for surely, the knowledge to be known at such a level would so far transcend the minds of we the lower level masses that it was foolish to even ponder. The spiritual struggles of Aristocrats on 24-G… One might as wonder how many holo-angels could swing on the tip of a pleasure-needle.
You could never seek to understand them, those angelic denizens of 24-G. You could only want to be them. And that is how it should be. No questions, only answers. Wait and work. Work and wait. Life in Crack City goes on, the obedient ascend, the lazy drift downward. Sink or swim. Work and fly. Think and fall. All is as it should be. Knowledge is a gift. Amen.
This is how I used to think. Until I fell, that is…--
***
Neural Log: 23:62-60-
--I keep blacking out. I'd hit my head in the fall. Or maybe the toxins and the fumes here at the bottom of the lower abyss have overwhelmed me. My muscles and bones ache from the impact. My skin tingles and itches and burns. My lungs are heavy and my lips and nostrils are coated with thick, mucousey carbo-soot. Sick and nauseous, my empty stomach keeps trying to heave out food that isn't there.
And, despite it all, I'm starving.--
***
Neural Log: 23:63-12-
--My neural implant is not working right.
I can feel it not working. Painful clicks deep in the meat in my brain. Intermittent, inconsistent. It doesn't feel like it's broadcasting-the familiar hum of the advertisements and orders, the policies and prayers, is now only static. I feel emptier than I've
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