From The Solstice Archive I

Side-Story Occurring Prior To Generalplan Suden

(From the state archives of the Socialist Dominances of Solstice)

Original Title: Concerning The Idyllic Fields Of Dori Dobo

Original Publication Date: 44th of the Yarrow’s Sun 2003

Author: Daksha Kansal, publishing for The Union Banner

A much beloved strategy from the exploiter toward the exploited is to speak in aberrant terms that redefine the world around them. They drown out the world in the noise of these aberrant discussions until silence and peace cannot be found. They circulate so much analysis and discussion of their terms toward conclusions convenient to them, that it becomes the common tongue, and any other manner of speaking is seen as the aberrant current in the air.

I’m not merely talking about the way Umma and Arjun pronounce words differently, or the unification of the scripts, or grammar subjects. I’m talking about our discussions as people.

I’ve outlined before that we have two classes of people in Ayvarta, whom we can easily refer to without using any terms foreign to us as the “exploiters” and “the exploited.” It is crude but it works for this paper. Exploiters seek to extract value from us for their gain.

They have their own language that they have forced upon our society to expedite the collection of our value, and in many cases, to guide us into offering it willingly without our knowledge. Underpinning this language is a simple idea I will outline below.

To the exploiter, things do not exist to serve their functions. They exist to create value and provide convenience for the exploiter. That is the underpinning of their dialect.

We have seen recent discussion about the production of food in the Dori Dobo region, and it has been dominated by this aberrant dialect, where a farm is an instrument that produces value for its owner through a secondary action of turning out food. We hear about rising prices of food, about the crop selection, about the conditions of the farms as “capital” in someone’s hands. We hear about strikes, and those strikes being crushed, and farm hands being in short supply and wages being low. Nobody seems to put into plain speech the fact that a farm makes food for our nourishment. They are not doing so right now because farms are owned by exploiters who demand the farm produce money for them. Anything else is secondary.

To the exploiter, the most important concept of a farm is that it be quiet, productive, make a lot of money, and require little of the exploiter’s own money to work. Thus the farm is run by laborers, for the exploiter’s convenience, and these laborers are paid poorly and treated poorly, for the exploiter’s profit. Should they tire of this state of affairs, they will certainly come to harm for doing so. As I write there is serious talk of forcing people to work in farms like prisoners, because the farm produces wealth and its production of wealth cannot be interrupted by such a mere thing as workers demanding wages and the chance to live.

To me, and to most normal people, we see a farm and think “this makes food for us.”

But it does not stop there at all! Everything can be viewed this way. For the farm owner to view the farm as an engine that produces money, he must also view food as an engine that produces money, and he does. He prices food such that it makes him the most money for his troubles. Thus, food itself gains the purpose “make money,” of greater importance than “provide nourishment.” For some time and through sheer luck, this methodology has resulted in food prices that large amounts of people can afford, and has therefore widely distributed food, and widely enriched the exploiters. However, the exploiter is ravenous, and if one sees everything as extraction of value, one must keep asking how more value can be extracted. Food can become even cheaper and more available, thus producing more money! It is limited by a few things — land, for example, which is plentiful. And labor — every shell you pay a farm hand is a shell you must make back in some way, if your goal is to “produce money.”

This creates the situation where the farm hands must be paid little, and must be worked more harshly, and must be held to greater scrutiny and generally treated like slaves, to produce the most value and convenience for the exploiter. Cheap labor on a forced march results in more vegetables being delivered, and sold at a cheaper price, thus they are bought in greater bulk, and the exploiter reaps a greater reward. At least, for a certain amount of time.

In the end the result is our situation now. Farm workers are barely able to eat and live under these circumstances, as such they are discontented, and cease to produce. They are removed or destroyed and replaced with new farm workers who do the job more poorly under the same poor conditions due to being unprepared and unmoviated and must then also be destroyed or replaced eventually. Because food “produces money” and does not “provide nourishment.”

And if we are talking about a farm, it is not solely in its relationship to producing food that value is the greatest virtue, but whether food is produced at all! Let us fly back up, and look again at a farm instead of at food specifically. Can you take action such that your farm produces even more value overall? For example, right now, plants for smoking are more valuable than plants for eating, so many farms that could be making food instead produce leisure items, because leisure items are more profitable. This is a minor feature of our local situation in Bada Aso, but it illustrates that there are various ways the exploiter’s mindset causes harm.

Everything works the same way. Medicine does not heal us, it profits the chemical company. Shelter does not house us, it profits the land owners who rent it or sell it. Our society is driven by this exploitation, and our discussion is dragged screaming to the topic of how to keep producing wealth for our exploiters. We cannot discuss the purpose of things — analysis will veer violently back to avenues of discussion that revolve around wealth production.

I posit a radical alternative, for which common language does not exist, such that I had to borrow words and concepts from a foreign land: let us produce food primarily to feed us. This is one of the main facets of what is called Socialism: a nation guided around bread, health and shelter, rather than profit. We produce what we can to care for each other.

From the land owners in Bada Aso, Solstice, and elsewhere the retorts are endless and inevitable. Two basic ones: “Who is going to pay for this?” “How do you expect things to be made if I cannot produce money from them?” This is all part of aberrant discourse. I will ask in its place a sensible question, one that is so simple and obvious and unproblematic that it no longer exists in our political discourse. This question is seen as the province of children: What is the purpose of food? I say the purpose of food is to nourish us. But it is an important question!

We need to eat food to live! In our society, however, seeing food as nourishment is a secret sin. Instead, we are trained to view it as a commodity, a means of exchange. Food loses its basic purpose and gains the purpose to produce money, to make wealth for someone.

Right now there are people starving on the streets of Bada Aso and Dori Dobo.

A significant amount of them used to grow and pick the food they now cannot have!

And why do we not have more food and more affordable food? Why are people starving on the street? We’ve seen this scene before only during natural disasters, during horrendous wars. Certainly no army is looting our crops. There is no storm sweeping all the grain in the Dori region or the Kalu region or the Kucha region, and even if there was, there would be stocks in Bada Aso, and stocks up north in the Tambwe dominance, and massive fields in Jomta.

Simply, the reason is that food is not given to us without providing an adequate value for the exploiter. There are people who take very seriously the job of making sure the exploiters get the exact best value from the food at all times, or else no food is given. Many people: economists, police, food policy administrators, and so on. An entire corps is in place to insure we cannot buy food. It is not that we can’t afford to pay it, and that anybody needs to pay it, but that the exploiter must extract value from it.

We have plenty of food to distribute, but only one permissible method to distribute it — we receive our food so that the farm owner receives a profit, of which, the actual growers of the food see none of.

To these people it makes perfect sense that you and I cannot eat fairly.

Until we reward the exploiters properly, we’re not supposed to eat!

Everything in the world, discussed through their goblin tongues, adds up perfectly today.

Should you or I start suddenly eating well without the exploiters being paid, now that would be a nightmare for the police, and the food policy men, and the economists and the farm owners and so on. That is a nightmare that I want to inflict upon them. Don’t you?

That nightmare is Socialism, under which the engines of society are seen thus: we are not individuals, but a people, and we will make sure the people can eat. We will not stand for individuals prevented from eating such that someone else among the People can profit from their starvation. We will produce food so that everyone can eat enough to live, because the purpose of food is to nourish us. We will make medicine to heal people, not to profit chemical companies. We will raise shelter such that the people are all protected from the elements, not to extract rent or sell villas to the people who have profited from starvation.

A nightmare for the farm owners, but for us, the only sensible way to live.

Let us create the means to content the real farmers who feed us, rather than bayonet them.

–Shacha (Archivist’s note: Daksha Kansal, under a nom de plume.)

Ackley’s New Lease On Life 7: Solipsism

While eagerly partaking of the academic essays in The Atrocities of the Ameran State, a book which could not even be found published in Amera but which Asmodeus owned a certified copy of, Ackley paused to watch her new, seemingly inhuman nurse as she hung a new schedule on the wall. Schedule papers contained a week’s worth of activities and appointments for the sick children, and helped bring order to their life in the hospital. Nurse always either forgot to put them up or did not fill any at all; Asmodeus was always prompt with them. Afterwards she gravitated toward the back table in the room, where she would ready Ackley’s doses for the week in a little blue box.

Ackley put down her book, turned slowly around, and slid herself to the edge of the bed. She wanted to read the schedule, but to do so she would have to stand up from her bed and walk.

Her feet touched the ground, and the chill of the cold, baby blue floor tiles traced its way up her legs and then across her spine. Long sleeping muscle and sinew resented the concept of feeling, and for a moment her whole body was wracked by a sharp prickling sensation. Her every movement seemed to flare up an intense stinging, like a mound’s worth of ants devouring her body. Slowly her flesh awakened and the phantom needles blunted against her skin. She nonetheless moved slowly, her lungs working hard, and dull pain settling in her lower back and across her knees.

Standing off her bed, Ackley moved slowly, shuffling her feet up to the wall. Her bedside liquid nitrogen extractor realized she was moving, and automatically began to extend the cords hooked into her lungs. Asmodeus was alerted, but Ackley silently waved her away, and focused on getting herself to the wall. One foot in front of the other, settling into a rhythm that kept her muscles from locking up or stopping, she crossed the few meters to the wall. She slumped on it, hands scratching the paint, desperate for a good grip. She caught her breath, and examined the schedule posted.

For a whole week, the schedule consisted of non-stop appointments with Dr. Ferguson.

Ackley looked it over again in disbelief, but this did nothing to alter its contents.

“Asmodeus, what is this?” She shouted, loud as her weak lungs could.

Asmodeus blinked. “It is the schedule for this week.”

“Why am I seeing Dr. Ferguson every hour of every day for a week?”

“You can ask her when she arrives in a few minutes.” Asmodeus replied.

“You mean ask him? Dr. Ferguson is a man.” Ackley said.

“It is entirely possible that he or she may or may not be one.” Asmodeus said.

“No, I’m fairly certain–”

The door slid open, and a tall, dark, elegant-looking woman entered. She had very long red hair, and she was tying it up a she went along, humming the hospital’s elevator music. When she entered the room she looked over the premises quickly and with a smug little grin on her face. Ackley had never seen the likes of her in all her very long time at the hospital. Ackley had to acquiesce that she looked more vivacious than the other doctors, to her credit. Her lab coat was clearly not hers, it was so overly large that she wore it almost like a cape over her turtleneck sweater, giving her the look of a pharmaceutical super heroine. Clipped to her flat skirt she had a variety of mysterious, sleek tools and devices. She had tied her hair in a ponytail with a very dishonest-looking pink ribbon. Her skin was a rich brown tone, and seemed all the more healthy and human after weeks of staring at the ghostly paleness of Asmodeus, and her own sickly gray-looking pallor.

“Who are you, and why do they keep letting people into my room?” Ackley said.

“I am Dr. Ferguson!” The woman declared, almost as if to herself.

“You are a liar.” Ackley said dryly. “I’ve seen Dr. Ferguson before, and you’re not him.”

Asmodeus interjected with feigned shock. “What is your basis for saying that?”

“She looks nothing like him. She is like a supermodel or something.” Ackley replied.

“Oh, you flatter me, I’m not that lovely.” Dr. Ferguson said. She hugged herself, reveling in the perfection of her own body. “I was just grown in a high quality vat with very good DNA.”

Ackley’s mind failed to comprehend what was said. All she could muster was a flat, “What.”

Asmodeus interjected again. “She is Dr. Ferguson. Drugs have affected your perception.”

Ackley scoffed. “My perception is entirely sound, Dr. Ferguson was my old doctor!”

Asmodeus nodded. “Drugs are affecting your perception right now.”

“No they aren’t, Asmodeus!” Ackley lashed out. “You’re trying to confuse me!”

“How can you say your judgment is sound? What is your basis for thinking anything is sound?” Dr. Ferguson said. With a flourish, she threw open the room curtains. “How can you say anything out there is structurally real? How do you define your own experiences with such clarity that you can definitely say that Dr. Ferguson has always been a big round man, and not a woman of impeccable breeding such as myself? How can anyone be certain of anything?”

“I’m scarcely thirteen years old!” Ackley said, her only defense at the time.

“Thirteen year olds! Hmph! Widely known for their solipsistic attitude. You will not even remember any of this when you are twenty-six. Memory is a fallible record. No use in a scientific substantiation of facts. You’ve no evidence as to whether I’m the real Dr. Ferguson, or some other Dr. Ferguson, or really Dr. Cruciere, or anything.”

“Did you just call yourself a different doctor name?” Ackley shouted.

“Can you say, with authority, that I have?” Dr. Cruciere said.

Ackley sighed deeply. “I can say with authority that I don’t care anymore.”

Ackley’s New Lease On Life 6: Chemicals

Ackley hid under her bed sheets and attempted to wait out the Rageditors, who seemed to content to lounge around her hospital room with the Nurse’s tacit approval to photograph her if she ever decided to stick her head out. People came in and out, ignoring the nurse and the strange visitors while delivering to Ackley supplies that she had requested when the Rageditor’s siege on her hospital room began. Her bed expanded from under those few blankets, with ice bags and pillows and boxes. It had grown into a powerful fortification. Not once did she allow the Rageditors to see her – that was their objective and she would deny it. She heard a cacophony of clicking and throbbing around the room as various cell phones and tablets and netbook computers delivered constant reports to Ragedit about the status of their epic meme operation. Every so often a pale little arm would extend from under the sheets and reach out to the machine next to the bed, and then reach back into the blanket fort. But that was all the satisfaction she would give them. This was a battle, and she was making preparations for a meme war of terrible proportion.

The first casualty of the siege, however, was her Nurse’s dignity.

“Ackley, the truth is,” the Nurse sighed, perhaps regretful of her hand in all of this, “the truth is, I’m a memer myself. In fact, I made some of those videos to score Ragedit karma. I’m telling you because I want to be real with you! I might even lose my job. My screen name is McNurse420. I wanted to be famous for memery!”

“You have an excruciating taste in usernames.” Ackley replied.

“Why, thank you! You see, Ackley, ever since I was a young nurse, reading Ragedit while bored on the job, I’ve dreamed of being a memetic success! I’ve been haunting Ragedit, trying to be on the ground floor of the next viral video or photo trend. But I’m just a boring average Ameran nurse, not like you! You’re special!”

“Being emotionally and physically isolated from the world is interesting, to be sure.”

“Yes, it is!” The Nurse sounded ecstatic. “I’m glad you understand.”

“I was being sarcastic.” Ackley murmured.

A drawling male voice grumbled from a corner of the room. Ackley could see its rather large outline even through the blankets of her fort. “McNurse, are we ever gonna get to see epic deadpan girl? The upvotes await! You told us we could score easy meme cred but we’ve been waiting for hours now. And all I’ve got to show for it are pictures of a really intricate pillow fort. Only 50 upvotes! I could have had thousands by now.”

“Just give me a moment, BigPony27,” the Nurse nervously said.

Ackley heard the distinctive shuffling of the Nurse’s shoes, and saw a shadow lean in.

And thus, the battle was joined.

From under one of the blankets she retrieved her secret weapon, a very cold and thick metal jug with a nozzle affixed to the top. She filled a small plastic medicine bottle with some the liquid inside the metal jug. As the hand neared, Ackley sprang from ambush, briefly extending her own arm and throwing out the bottle in retaliation. Her projectile struck the nurse on the shoulder harmlessly and bounced off to the ground. The Nurse sighed and picked it up, underestimating Ackley and believing it to be a childish act of rage. In an instant the bottle burst in the Nurse’s hand with a loud pop, giving off an awful smell and a large cloud of foul gasses. The Nurse screamed – wringing her hand in the air to relieve the pain. The snap from the bursting bottle would have hurt, but Ackley hoped it had not done much more.

“What was that? Ackley I demand to know!” The Nurse screamed. “You hurt my hand!”

“A small liquid nitrogen bomb.” Ackley replied through the shouting.

“Where did you get that?” The Nurse shouted. “Where did you get the nitrogen Ackley!”

Ackley was honestly surprised by the reaction.

“Have you been paying no attention to me at all? My disease, nurse! I produce close to half a gallon of this stuff every day just sitting around here wondering why I’m not dead yet! How could you possibly have been taking care of me for months now and you don’t even know what my disease entails?”

The Nurse grumbled loudly and ignored Ackley’s protest entirely, for the first time her demeanor turning quite foul. She stomped her way to the other side of the bed, examining the liquid nitrogen extractor hooked up to Ackley’s chest. All of the extractor was designed to keep the strange, watered-down and biologically produced liquid nitrogen from Ackley’s body cool enough to avoid danger. Special tubes drew the liquid from Ackley’s body, and pumped it through to a special container. It was currently empty, and it had been consistently emptied for the past few days. Doctors would have assumed it was the Nurse who emptied it diligently, in accordance to the hazardous medical waste disposal guidelines, but it was clear from her inspection the Nurse had no idea what the extractor was or what it really did. She poked it, and her figure crouched near it, and followed the various cables extending from it with her fingers.

“So from this, then? This is where you get that dangerous liquid?”

Her words sent a chill down Ackley’s spine.

“Don’t touch my extractor.” Ackley warned.

From under the pillow fort, Ackley withdrew a bottle, this time a glass bottle, and quickly reacted, filling it from the jug and then corking it. She hastily donned a gas mask and then raised her hand out of the fort and rolled this new bomb off her bed as gently as she could – it landed without shattering and continued to roll blindly out to the back of the room, where the congress of Rageditors was convened. In a few moments its temperature was spiraling out of control. One of the Rageditors then screamed in agony as the liquid nitrogen inside the bottle quickly expanded in a terrible explosion, sending shards of glass flying, showering his party of meme masters with debris and covering them in a cloud of the rapidly expanding gases, odorless and yet unbreathable. From under Fort Ackley it was difficult to acquire visual confirmation, but the thundering boots and the cries for help seemed indicative of the enemy’s retreat. Behind them went the Nurse, crying for them to wait and return, for the memes would be epic, epic with a “le,” if only they gave her a chance.

This was the last time Ackley saw that particular Nurse.

Regardless, Ackley felt a disturbing amount of pleasure having driven back the forces of memery, and crossed a few of the more macabre items from her bucket list, such as “Win A War” and “Unleash Hell.” New nurses came and went with the days and nights, but they were not the Nurse, and they were not a new Nurse. They tore down her pillow fort, though amicably, and removed her Liquid Nitrogen paraphernalia. Despite this they were quite preferable to the Nurse. The new nurses came and went in their little white dresses and aprons and their little white caps, ostensibly some other patients’ nurses who were taking care of necessary tasks for Ackley. They did all the things Nurse used to do, helping her change clothes, bringing her food – and they scarcely made any insensitive small talk or forgot her condition.

Ackley thought she finally had time and space to contemplate the meaning of her life, and what she really wanted out of it, if she could have a future. But she came up blank. She was an incredibly intelligent person, but the concept of a future was still very difficult for her to grasp. In many ways she was a child, and she thought that perhaps children simply, intrinsically, could not comprehend the terrible vastness involved in their future, and the planning of it. Doctors had given her a very short timetable, and she had exceeded it several times. It was difficult to construct a position in such a limited universe – the four walls and the nurses and the extractor offered her little chance of development.

Blissful as it was, this period of quiet meditation was soon over, as Ackley received a new Nurse. At first it seemed like she was just another temporary visitor, but soon she began showing up at all hours of the day. This nurse was young, younger even than Nurse, and fairly blueish and pale, with red eyes, and her very pale hair tied into a ponytail. She had introduced herself in an alarming way, which led Ackley to believe she might be another memer trying to score points.

“I am Asmodeus. I’m not really human, so forgive my mistakes.”

Ackley frowned. She sat up and tried to raise her shoulders and to cross her arms to look tough.

“My name is Ackley Hermes. I’m the enemy of Memes. I will destroy all Memes and Memers.”

This provoked no reaction from the new Nurse. Asmodeus had a blank expression similar to her own, neither frowning, nor smiling, with her eyes not too wide open and not too closed shut, and her brows in a neutral position. Ackley’s declaration of unending war on Memes passed by Asmodeus with as little reaction as if someone had merely told her the date – and as such Ackley decided Asmodeus was not a memer. She was some kind of monster.

Over the course of the next few days, Ackley scrutinized everything Asmodeus did.

She went about her tasks mechanically. Nurse had often hummed or sang crude lyrics while working, but Asmodeus did nothing of the sort, taking to her work with an eerie quiet that suggested either intense focus, or the inhuman and off-hand expertise of a construct. Asmodeus did nothing but the exact things required at a particular moment. Her day was as though plotted out entirely in her mind, down to the microseconds worth of blinking her eyes.

Ackley felt unsettled, but she could not complain. Asmodeus was perfect. Nurse sometimes ate in the room, but Ackley was not even sure Asmodeus breathed, and she certainly never ate in her presence. Asmodeus wore her nurse uniform pristinely and carried herself with precision. Her every step was perfect, as she walked along the room tiles her feet would take the same position in each successive tile. As she picked up different medicine bottles in succession, she would hold all of them at the same, exact angle while pouring their contents for Ackley to drink.

Meal time with Nurse had always been a struggle – Nurse was clumsy and slow when she attempted to feed Ackley, and sometimes even ate some of the food herself while Ackley chewed. Asmodeus was exact, delivering spoonfuls of soup and forks of crisp vegetables, waiting just enough for Ackley to eat, and never missing an opportunity to offer her a drink to wash it down before the next spoon or fork. She did not complain and she did not falter. The food always arrived hot, she made sure of it; and she always managed to acquire the rare buttered cafeteria bread buns that Nurse always forgot, and then blamed on faster nurses and the long lines and the needs of other children.

Whenever Asmodeus helped her change robes Ackley thought she felt a clammy, dead touch, but this was so utterly brief as to be an illusion – that cold touch, in the span it took to register it, would become a warm and comforting embrace that a brief graze of flesh could not possibly have imparted. Yet the endorphins still rushed, as though Asmodeus had cast an enchanting spell over her by doing nothing but briefly brushing her nape with her fingers.

Soon, however, she found she was not the only one paying close attention.

“Inquiry.”

Asmodeus often said this to broach a topic.

“Yes?” Ackley replied.

“I have now observed you for close to a week and analyzed various factors. I believe that you are missing a key component of your corporate hospital experience, which I as a true Nurse-Laborer unit working at this corporate hospital unit, and not as an infiltrator of any kind, must insure to you, customer and corporate medicine client, in order to uphold my appearance as a true Nurse-Laborer unit–”

Ackley sighed. “Yes, you are some kind of spy robot, I understand. Ask your question.”

“What do you do, for leisure?”

“I concentrate on not being in pain.” Ackley replied. “I’m on medications for pain, so it works. I also have a bucket list I fill out. I sometimes play video games. People donate video games to the Hospital a few times a year. But they’re often earmarked for kids besides me who need them more. Sometimes the Hospital doesn’t really have certain medicines, and nobody really donates that, so they give the children video games instead.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“For the last few months I have been constantly harassed by idiots.”

“Would you enjoy reading printed academic literature? I have a vast library at my storage unit.”

“Do you mean your home?” Ackley replied.

“My storage unit, yes.”

“I would be mildly interested in some foreign philosophy works.” Ackley said.

She had little hope that this would happen. After all, Nurse had promised several times to bring her child-safe, ideologically approved literature like Larry Merchant And The Chamber of Profits, but always failed to do so for one reason or another. Nonetheless she wrote a few titles and topics and left it up to Asmodeus, almost entirely forgetting the exchange, which she was sure would evaporate overnight. However, the next day Asmodeus deposited a copy of Revolutionary Ideals of the Poccnan Republics at her bedside before beginning her day’s work; once she had read this book, Asmodeus delivered an extra buttered bun and a copy of The Ultimate Downfall of Capital. Days later, at Ackley’s request, Asmodeus printed several SneakyLeaks pages and stapled them into a hand-made book of state secrets.

It was this final act that seemed to confirm all of Ackley’s suspicions.

“Are you a Communist robot?” Ackley asked. “Are you here so I can defect?”

“I’m more of a fungus.” Asmodeus replied, and ignored the latter question.

The Burden of the Post

Uttarakuru is the fantasy world in my head, and some of my writings. I’ve been meaning to write stories in it, and the book I’m working on will be set in it. I want to use this space to write a couple short pieces about it. I’m trying a different, a bit more ponderous style of writing. I don’t know whether it will seem different, but just so you know. As usual you are quite welcome to comment and let me know what you think. 

###

There was a bulletin board pinned to the building’s center column, and big, bold script written overhead, each character curling elegantly into the next. The board greeted every customer who walked through the door; the first thing they could see was a bright and cheerful, “What Is New At The Sleet Street Post Office?” There were several different papers and pictures tagged to the board, each with news and tips to make one’s post office journey more pleasant. The price of stamps had risen by 2 copper, and there was a pleading reminder for everyone to bring exact change. Photocard rates had gone down 1 copper, thanks to a good crop of Ash Herb this year. A glossy Photocard of Calis and Kamlee, sole employee and sole manager of the Sleet Street post office, smiled at the customers as a vibrant example of the premium quality pictures they could buy. Below them, wanted posters hung by Arbiters and the Gendarmerie mugged at the entryway and listed fresh, frightening crimes.

Calis Maharapatram stood from behind the counter, and searched everywhere for onlookers and busybodies. He looked outside to the frosty streets. He looked in the washroom. He looked around the front office. He was thankfully alone. Nobody was watching – except the spirits whom he would soon disappoint. Tail stiff and erect behind him, he rushed up to the column, silently prayed to the spirits of justice to forgive him, and took all of the wanted posters. He quickly moved them to a much less cheerful bulletin board in a corner of the boxy post office lobby. This was the official and unspoken location policy on wanted posters. “Nobody wants to see a bunch of crooks leering at ’em when they’re coming to the Post,” Post-Manager Kamlee had said, reverentially waving her hands as she invoked the name of the sacred Post, the great purveyor of stamps.

“Leave the posters there for a few hours, then jank them out when no one’s looking and put them on the other board. I don’t want them seen from the door. A wanted poster’s never caught a thief anyway.”

Calis did not agree with the Post Manager, but he was a Post Employee, and it was his job.

In the midst of his miscarriage of justice, he heard bells ringing as the front door swung open and struck them. “One moment please!” He called back, hurriedly pinning the papers. Passing by the counter he glanced at the customer in front of the column, reading the bulletin board with the new rates. He smiled suddenly. It would probably be a photocard – when they stopped to read the rates, it was always a photocard, and those were all kinds of fun.

The customer called back. “Take your time!”

She waved her hand over the side of the column.

Calis took his place behind the tall wooden counter. Having been given a bit of leeway, he feigned as though he had to search the shelves behind the counter for something; instead he crouched out of sight and touched up his pigments, quickly applying a bright red lip pen and a eye pen, and powder to smooth his skin further. He checked the pin holding his long hair against the back of his head. Once certain he was comely and Lilly-like, he stood up anew, fixing his tie and pressing down his warm red uniform skirt and jacket. Reds were the chosen color of the Post in the city of Oomash. Sleet Street, and all of Oomash for that matter, were constantly battered with snow, due to their position atop the Hetuku – bright, hot colors and a crisp appearance was just one thing the Post could do to make customers feel warm in the mountain weather.

His customer approached the counter. Had she wanted to deposit a letter, there was a tube with a small pump on the left-hand side of the room which would drop the letter in a basket in the back office. No, Calis thought, what she wanted was service. He smiled, and held his hands clasped together in front of him on the counter. Though he knew better than to assume things, she seemed a monied person – under her blue, shimmering drake-scale coat he could see silk and bright gold buttons and a bit of chain around her neck, perhaps a fine jeweled necklace, and when her coat split as she sought out her purse, he noticed very fine-looking long robes of a quality fabric, and a very colorful sash around her stomach.

The woman deposited a piece of paper on the counter.

“I would like to send this message to a person in Karst, in the Southland.”

Calis closed his eyes. He was still smiling. “Come again?”

“A telegram; you offer telegraph services, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, yes we do.” Calis said. His voice wavered slightly, and his fingers trembled. He ran through the calculations very quickly and subtly, all in the midst of flipping and arranging some of his stray hair over his dog-like ears. Casual fidgeting helped hide the math work. Distance, standard message codification fee, materials, average message length with optimal typography; in a moment he had the price. Yet his heart would not stop pounding, and he felt a bit of perspiration building. “The price is a bit prohibitive; regulations and all. It will be six silver, five copper.”

“I don’t mind the price. I need to send a message to my wife, it’s very urgent.”

“Alright. One moment please!”

Calis bowed his head and calmly retreated through a door beside the front desk. He closed it behind himself. The back office was quiet, save for the thump of an official seal being punched on letters, and the drip of a leaking pipe, unable to freeze shut due to the heat from the interior furnace. He walked past his desk, and stood in front of a larger and more desk. Though obscured by a mound of letters, the occupant was certainly active; periodically a letter, now punched with the official seal of the Oomash post, would fly out and strike the wall, then flutter down unto a large, wheeled basket of out-bound mail.

“Anything wrong?”

“I need help.” Calis said. He sighed deeply. “It’s a telegram. A customer wants a telegram.”

Long ears the shape of falcon’s wings rose over the mound in alert. A pair of hands split the mound of letters down the middle, allowing Post Master Kamlee to peer out in shock. “A telegram, really?” She cried out, quickly buttoning up her post uniform over her undershirt, having unbuttoned it for comfort. She took one of her shiny postal service medals and pinned her short hair behind her head with it, trying to be as presentable as possible with as little effort as could be spared. “What kind of customer are we talking here; and are there really no other options for them?”

“Woman, and a Lilly maybe; young, I guess? Looks affluent. Message is for her wife.”

“Oh dear. She looks like she can pay the ridiculous rate then? And she’s motivated?”

Calis nodded. “She does and she is. She really wants to send this telegram.”

“Why doesn’t she send a letter?” Kamlee protested, stamping her fists on the desk and knocking some of the letters unto the floor. “What kind of reckless life does she lead that she can’t plan ahead for a simple and easy letter? I don’t want to judge, but I am judging! A telegraph, in this spirit-blessed year?”

“She assured me it was urgent and serious.” Calis said.

Calis and Kamlee slowly and with great dismay turned to the room corner, where the machine in question had lain for years now, unmoved, blissfully forgotten. It seemed now to brim with ominous new life. The telegraph machine was just small enough to fit through the door, with effort, and no smaller. Atop the beast was long and broad surface full of thick pearl keys and a long needle with a button to punch it down on the surface. This mechanism was used to type down messages containing the 90 accepted Standard Script characters that could be transmitted via the telegraph. It stood on four ancient brass legs with iron wheels and over time it had lost almost all of the gilded sheen and glossy pigment it had been given. Kamlee and Calis could hardly see their expressions reflected in its body anymore. Their brown skin seemed to disappear on it, and it was uncomfortably pitted, so they looked sickly in whatever glossy surfaces their faces could still reliably appear upon.

Inside the machine were a series of copper and gold sinews, carefully burnt in and blessed, and the various organs by which it consumed fuel and then transmitted its etchings to other stations. It was like a voice box, only infinitely more confusing. And it was now up to Calis and Kamlee to unravel the monstrosity, for six silver coins and five copper ones. Eyeing the beast and filled with dread at its coming awakening, the two clasped their hands and muttered quick prayers. May the spirits protect its iron soul; may they bless the post with the skill and strength to commandeer its esoteric powers.

Kamlee asked again, slowly drawling each word. “Are you sure you explained the rates?”

Calis nodded, his face grim. “Six silver, five copper. More than my salary for today’s work.”

Kamlee stood up her desk, and she marched to the telegraph machine, and kicked it.

Together, they seized upon the telegraph machine and pushed it out of its corner. They struggled to turn it, to curve it around obstacles, and to force it flush against the wall. It was a mammoth, a rattling beast, and they were never more aware that their limbs contained flesh, supple, vulnerable flesh, than when they attempted to wrest it from the back office. Pushed through the door at an angle, it could possibly even become lodged in the door frame and bar the way out – much of the struggle involved aligning the machine with the door in the precise way it would fit. Thrashing legs scraped against the floor; they ran with their shoulders set to the machine, just to move it inches toward a destination.

“Namaste! One moment please!” Kamlee called out to the post front.

“Take your time!” The customer said.

Once aligned with the door, the machine was forced out of it inch by inch. Calis and Kamlee set their shoulders against it, drew back, and shoved it, each charge pushing the machine just a bit further. Their customer hurried to one side as they barged through the door and rolled the machine out unto the floor of the front office, the polished floor giving them slightly better gains from each push and thrust. Calis felt a throb whenever he so much as moved his arm on the side he had been charging the machine, his shoulder a tight knot of pain. The two of them split up, as routine demanded.

Kamlee addressed the customer with a smiling face.

“Good afternoon, Mati–

She paused at the honorific, allowing the customer to fill in for her.

“Charee Lakhanpal.”

Kamlee bowed her head, and Charee bowed back. They held hands as part of the greeting. “We’ll get your message out in short order.” Kamlee gracefully led her to the counter, where she took a sheet of paper from a small box on a corner of the desk, and offered the woman her pen. “First, could you fill out this survey for us?”

Charee smiled. “Gladly.”

Behind them, Calis pulled the machine steadily across the room until it was closer to the wall. Using the slight distraction he had been given, he took practiced steps to prepare the machine for its task. He opened a sliding panel on the wall and attached a thick rubber-coated metal cable to brass contact points on one end of the machine. Inside the sliding panel was a small tin can. Its fluid, greenish-brown contents had frozen solid over time. Nonetheless, he scraped the crumbling brown chunks out of the can with the nib of his official postal service pen and into a fold-out reservoir on the back of the machine. He folded it back in, uttered a line of prayer, and peeked his head over the contraption to signal for Kamlee.

“Ah, we’re ready. And just in time too. Here is a survey prize for you, Charee das.”

Kamlee procured a small leaf of paper with four commemorative stamps affixed, celebrating the venerable Urus armored car and its hundred years of service in various roles, including postal delivery. Charee folded the paper into her dress robes, between her belly and her ornate sash. Her tail wagged a little with appreciation.

The Post Master walked Charee to the telegraph machine, and made a flourish of her hands as though to introduce a valuable member of the staff. Calis struggled not to laugh or make a gesture that would hint at the sheer insincerity behind their actions. Both of them hated this machine and hated using it but their contempt could never be allowed to spread to the customers desiring it. The Post was about Service, the almighty Post, and it had a reputation to maintain. Calis kept himself stoic as possible, offering a smile only if Charee’s eyes neared his way. While Kamlee explained some of how the machine would work, and took Charee’s message, Calis smacked his lips as though to even out the pigments he had applied on them, and made as though to sort out his hair, flipping some over his ears and running his fingers lightly through it.

Finally their customer stepped back from them, and Kamlee hovered over the machine and pulled on a lever. This produced a cough of pale yellow smoke from a different hatch on the side of the machine, and it began to rattle and generate heat. Its engine labored to burn and consume the frozen esochem Calis had fed into it.

“Calis, please punch down the message I’ll be dictating to you.”

Calis stood on the tips of his shoes and leaned over the machine. He was not tall enough to use the machine comfortably, and his face was soon dripping with sweat. On one hand he had a lever which would turn the thick, brutal-looking and menacing needle arm atop the telegraph machine, and slide it up and down across the keys, emblazoned with the characters available to spell out messages; his other hand he kept over a square button, which he could hit with his fist to trigger the arm descending unto a key, transmitting that character through the wire via its strange powers, across vast tracts of land, to a similar office which was equipped with a receiver machine that could print out the message.

“Dear Mati Upsala Ramayan, stop from beloved wife Mati Charee Lakhanpal line,” Kamlee began her dictation and Calis began to move the needle and punch down the characters, each time causing the machine to rattle more violently for an instant, and then a tiny spark to issue from the cable panel on the wall, “Sincerest apologies for my behavior, stop, I wish once again to live with you, line, living apart from you has been hellish, stop. My heart and flesh long for you like no other, stop. There can be nobody in my bed but you, line. I shall disavow the third party forever, please return to me, end.”

Calis’ face grew very red while typing the message. Not just from the heat wafting up from the beastly telegraph machine, but the fact that all of this resulted in a reconciliation letter regarding an affair!

But Charee and Kamlee seemed unmoved by the dictation, so Calis kept quiet and did his work, and tried not to nurse any theatrical fantasies about the letter and its origins. Once it was fully written, Kamlee pulled the lever again. A final spark of power blew from the back of the machine and traced the length of the cable into the wall, and then on its way down to the Southland. Kamlee nonchalantly wiped her own brow with a handkerchief, pocketed it, and bowed again to Charee. “Your message is now on its way. I hope it will touch your wife’s heart, as it touched ours.” She said graciously.

“I sincerely hope so as well.” Charee said.

“May the spirits of love tie a red knot around you two, once again.” Calis said. His own voice was exhausted. His hair was somewhat disheveled, and he would likely need to redo his pigments.

Charee took her leave, complimenting Calis on how wonderful he looked with his lip stick and skirt. The two postal workers exchanged bows and hands with their customer, and Charee handed Kamlee a bank note from the Center Circle, the portion of the city inside the mountain that housed the apparatus of government. The note covered the cost of the message, when exchanged. The moment the door bells rang again, and the door swung shut, Kamlee and Calis collapsed against the machine. They promptly regretted it, as the fiend was still red hot, and burnt them through their uniforms.

“Spirits-cursed thing! I want it melted down!” Kamlee shouted, kicking it again. Her winged ears beat fast in her anger, and her feathery tail closed and folded open rapidly. “I want it shot!”

“Must we push it back in now?” Calis cried, brushing his hands hard against his back in a desperate attempt to cool the stinging pain running down the back of his neck and down his spine.

“We should roll it down the street! Roll it off the mountain!” Kamlee shouted.

But they could do no such thing. Sleet Street Post offered telegraph services, had offered them for close to a hundred years, and they would continue to do so for a hundred more. Realizing their situation, Calis and Kamlee cursed the machine more, resigned themselves, and when it cooled, prayed to the Spirits for strength. They would have to push it back inside the back office, to await the next customer who required a message sent miles and miles overland faster than a letter could arrive. Regardless of their reservations, it was this, which was truly the burden of the post.

Ackley’s New Lease On Life 5: Memes

Ackley had hoped for a few, perhaps final, weeks of peace after being acquitted of her terrorism charges by the Department of Departments. Instead she discovered that children’s hospitals had a domineering attitude toward the terminally ill patients housed within them, and especially so if they had been on television for a high profile investigation.

For a few days, Ackley had come close to stardom. During the investigation of Agent Winchester, various people realized her existence and had come to shine very bright uncomfortable lights on her and stick a hydra-like assortment of microphones and cables very close to her face, forcing her to button up her shirts all the way, redo her messy, long pigtails and keep herself seated upright, a titanic effort after years of slouching. There was a barrage of questions. A Hound News reporter asked her why she hated Amera, and she explained a few facts, such as the prison population as a form of neo-slavery, which were ignored. A GNN reporter wondered how sad and miserable her existence was, to which she responded with indifference. A tabloid reporter who climbed up the side of the hospital and broke through her window with a pair claws asked if Ackley’s disease was real, to which she replied that it was by screaming for help, and in this act, coughing some liquid nitrogen on his face.

“You’re a sensation Ackley!” The Nurse had gleefully told her. She had come in one day with a mischievous expression and passed her smartphone to Ackley, where she discovered various memetic Memetube videos featuring her likeness and sound bites, taken from the news. Many auto-tuned her voice and looped footage of her blank and diffident mannerisms while a plethora of flashing, colorful light filters endangered the epileptics in the audience.

“what the fuq name for a girl is Ackely,” Ackley said, reading the top comment on a video.

“Oh don’t fret, they don’t mean any harm by it.” The Nurse had said.

“Is this what it feels like, to be ‘trolled’.” Ackley asked.

“I suppose so. I have never been trolled. But I am young still, so there will be time.” The Nurse gazed admiringly into space, as though relishing the thought of being trolled, on the internet.

Ackley on the other hand felt very little in the way of stimuli, negative or positive, as she read the various Ragedit threads where she’d been lovingly rendered in Rage comics. It was difficult to feel things when her lungs, and a few other organs, might be freezing over soon. Or at least, that was her perspective on it. However, in her limited emotional range Ackley did manage to hold a bit of contempt for the memetic process, and tried her best to ignore it. Surely, she was not becoming a sensation. Just the source of a few laughs, for a few reprobates. She resolved to pursue her bucket list in peace.

However, over the next few weeks, The Nurse grew ever more motherly toward Ackley.

“Ackley, I fear that you may be growing antisocial.”

The Nurse hovered over Ackley’s bed with a look of most grievous concern.

“That is fine. I’m not altogether sure I like society.” Ackley replied.

“That is exactly what I feared. Our little shining star needs to cheer up.”

Ackley shuddered. “To whom do you refer by ‘our’, and to what do you refer to by ‘star’?”

“Well, the children’s hospital has received a lot of donations and attention from people concerned about you. I believe that it is my duty as your Nurse, and the hospital’s duty to the donors who love and cherish you, to insure you have a fulfilling life here. It would not do for Epic D– I mean, you, Ackley, to be miserable here.”

“What were you about to say there?” Ackley asked sharply.

“Nothing!” The Nurse waved her hands. “Are you sad, Ackley? You are always so blank and pale. I’ve never seen you frown, but I’ve also never seen you smile. You’re always so deadpan.”

“I don’t feel anything right now other than mild annoyance.”

“Do you think maybe some antidepressants would cheer you up?” The Nurse pulled out a tube from her pocket and shook it like a maraca in front of Ackley’s face, smiling pleasantly at the offered temptations. Inside the tube were bright, colored bubblegum orbs laced with children’s antidepressants. “They come in yummy flavors!”

“I have the best antidepressant already, Nurse. Your presence.” Ackley said.

The Nurse’s face turned very red, and she shied away from Ackley. “Oh, Ackley!”

Ackley produced her bucket list from under her pillow and marked off an item.

“That was sarcasm.” She then declared. But the Nurse was too lost in her own elation.

The world seemed to grow ever more interested in her. A Child Psychologist on staff came and asked her questions, such as whether she loved Amera and whether it was okay for this information to be divulged to the Department of Departments. Ackley attempted to explain the failure of austerity politics and the growth of privatization of services as a means to syphon wealth and benefits from lower-income persons to the rich, but the Psychologist told her she was silly and did not have a college degree, so she should not speak about such things. After his departure, a Child Biochemist wandered in the next day and examined the machine cycling the nitrogen out of her body. He drew a sample from its nitrogen pack, examined it, and tasted it, and collapsed, screaming and thrashing, bleeding from his nose, and prompting more staff to invade the room and rush the man to an adult hospital before his throat froze. A Child Calendar Photographer then appeared and took various images of Ackley for a fundraising calendar. Then Ackley hid permanently under her blankets.

“Ackley, you’re being unreasonable now.” The Nurse said.

“I’m not coming out.” Ackley said, covered in her blankets like a ghost. “I can’t even imagine who is next. A Child Economist from the staff will come debate me about my austerity comments? A Child Zoologist will burst from the aether and declare me a new species of homynid before eating some of my pocket lint and dying? I’m done with you all.”

“I apologize about the photographer.” The Nurse said. “I thought that was a little creepy.”

“Your capacity to undertake social analysis is simply monumental.”

“Why, thank you!”

Ackley grit her teeth and clenched her fists. “That, too, was sarcasm.”

“I have some visitors for you, however! They’re friends of mine from the website Ragedit!”

“Oh, please no.”

From inside her blanket and pillow armor, Ackley heard the tramping of boots, and the shifting of body mass into the cramped doorway, and clicking of smartphone cameras. She heard belabored breathing and strange, alien chuckling, barely contained.

“Is that her? Is that Le Epic Deadpan Girl?” They asked.

“Please don’t call her that.” The Nurse pleaded. “Call her Ackley Hermes.”

“I’m issuing a vote of no confidence in you, Nurse.” Ackley said, bundling herself tighter.

Ackley’s New Lease On Life 4: Arc Cards

John Winchester’s earplugs had proven very useful for the next few days as the authorities converged on Ackley’s hospital room, and all of the powers at be tried to understand what had gone wrong with John Winchester, whose Quipper, username “Killa Kop 420,” had gone under much scrutiny in the days to follow. Media reports disagreed on the true extent of his daddy issues and why he would make it such a personal mission to scare a little sick girl who may or may have not built a chemical weapon and killed a very very rich man; which was a serious thing to do, and they did not disagree that it was very serious, but not worth scaring a sick little girl – except Hound News, who thought it was quite worth it and should become policy.

Through all this, Ackley laid on her bed and ignored everything.

“You’ve got mail, Ackley!”

The Nurse danced into the hospital room holding a shimmering silver envelope in her hands, skipping her feet and spinning like a ballerina before depositing the note on Ackley’s bedside. She knelt over the bed, blinking her eyes expectantly, eagerly waiting for the little gray girl to pick up the letter and rip it open from the side. It was official postage from the Department of Departments, with the official sigil, a golden, pyramidical eye. The Nurse nodded her head and clapped her hands to cheer her on, and Ackley read the letter as loud as her small, liquid nitrogen-filled lungs allowed her to–

Esteemed Citizen Ackley Hermes,

The Department of Departments regrets the unfortunate harassment you received from Agent John Winchester. He has since been disciplined in accordance with state agent reeducation policies, and will be sending you a personal letter of apology when he awakens from his coma.

The Department of Departments’ “Grievous Miscarriage of Justice” department has sentenced Fulton Handler for the crimes of lying to authorities, failing to report a terrorist action and failing to supervise a child using weapons of mass destruction, and all charges against you have been dropped. All charges against the Ladybird were also dropped, by Presidential request. We thank you for your patience in this matter.

As a token of our sincere apology, included is a McDowell’s Arc Card worth 10 amero. The Department of Departments recommends the Shrapnel Shake and the McManhood Burger.

–Leidela Aristotle Sixtus, Department of Departments GMJ Department

Ackley removed the tiny blue and silver gift card from the envelope and stared at it wanly.

“I can’t eat McDowell’s food.” Ackley said matter-of-factly.

The Nurse nodded. “It would be very bad for your health.”

She put her hands on her hips and struck a disapproving pose, then snatched the card out of Ackley’s hands.

“I will have to confiscate this then, for your health of course. Sorry, Ackley.”

The Nurse patted Ackley’s head half-heartedly and marched sternly away, stiff and straight like a soldier. When the automatic door to the room closed behind her, Ackley could still see her through the small square window on the door; the Nurse was jumping up and down, dancing, swinging the card overhead to show off her prize, and shaking her hips.

Passing nurses and doctors looked on with jealousy or disdain or embarrassment, Ackley could not tell. Instead, she reached behind her pillow for her bucket list and pen, and flipped the pages to find a particular list item, Be Preyed Upon By The System.

She checked the box next to it, and then laid down to nap.