They don't make 'em like you anymore.
That's what Doc Glennie says, his voice echoing inside my shell. My innards are in a heap on the workbench in front of me so I can't reply, but I think about it. It's true, in a literal sense. My memory is going bad, but I know Doc means something else - I think it's a compliment meant to imply that something has been lost along the way even while progress was made. That sounds right.
Doc Glennie stands and sighs, though I can't remember if that's voluntary or not with him. He's looking out the big roll-up garage door of the hospital at the warehouse, eyes flicking and eyelids fluttering. I remember watching my friend Alan dream; it looks a lot like that. Doc is going through his inventory and the inventory of other hospitals, looking for what I need. Alan was probably imagining he could fly. He told me he dreamt of that often.
There was a time when they could make anything out of anything else, pulling matter apart molecule by molecule and re-arranging the pieces. Now Doc is ordering parts for me from an antique store. We lost something, and I don't even remember why or how. I forget what we've forgotten.
Soon there won't be a way to fix my body, and Doc will send my brain off to the Retirement Center where I can sit on a shelf and wait for my memory to give out completely. It's not long now. I'm looking out past the warehouse, to the orange sky streaked with clouds; I try to imagine flying through that sky, silhouetted across the moons as I head past the city over the wasteland. I can't imagine like Alan could, though.
Doc Glennie reaches into me again, tells me he's jury-rigging something to tide me over. I distract myself from the sound of something snapping by trying to pull up my oldest memories. The sky is blue there, with just one moon. Alan is a baby, and his parents have left me to watch him. I was good at watching babies. They don't make those anymore, either.
I'm as fixed as I can be for now, and Doc and I step outside onto the dusty street. Some young people walk by on their way to a party, all shining and new. Their chests rise and fall as they laugh, harking back to a time none of them remember. Smiles and facial tics and the Doc's sighs. Everyone is looking for what we lost, but there's nobody left to show us the way.
I thank Doc and head off, creaking, towards the edge of the city and beyond.
Awesome work. You always do a splendid job at setting a scene and making it come alive.
ReplyDeleteI would have liked to see a bit of a plot in this one. Not a full scale beginning-middle-end because after all, you are trying to stick to a word limit and most of those words are being put to good use already.
It's just that you have several excellent hooks from which you could hang the threads of a plot, and I hate to see them go unused.
- The POV character heads off beyond the city to what, or where?
- What ever happened to Alan?
- Involuntary sighs? Facial tics? Hmmmm...
Well, part of it is the word limit but to be honest a bigger factor is that I was trying to capture a feeling rather than a story.
ReplyDeleteThere is always a certain amount that I'll need the reader to fill in the blanks, and it can be hard to decide how much. There's a line where suggestions like yours stop being criticism and start being opinion, and I don't know which side I'm on.
For what it's worth, I can tell you the answers to your questions as I imagine them, though by not including them in the story I fully expect everyone to decide for themselves.
1. He's heading into the aforementioned wasteland. Just... away.
2. Alan died, peacefully, of old age. A long long time ago.
3. "harking back to a time none of them remember" They're emulating humans, but they are not and have never met humans. The main character has, because he's very old. Maybe it started when humans were around, with robots trying to fit in better by being human-shaped and having eyelids and whatever. Now there's no point but they do it anyway.
But I feel like if I say all of that in the story directly, it becomes a list of facts rather than a story, or (as Amy puts it) like one of those commercials:
"Hey, your lawn looks great! Is that the new X36 riding mower with dual-blade attachment?"
"Why, yes! It has an extra-large mulch bag and is only two hundred dollars at your local hardware store!"
"That's great! And I hear that for a limited time you can get the dead hooker disposal attachment at no additional charge!"
"That's right! It's a great value! You should call now! The number is...
So, yeah. I don't know where the line is sometimes. I tried adding a little more to this one, but I liked it less with each fact I added. So for now even though I appreciate your advice I don't know that I can apply it here.
First of all, let me say that I wrote this reply before and the computer ate it, and it was much better the first time. I feel like Ellen Feis, but not stoned.
ReplyDelete> I was trying to capture a feeling rather than a story.
And you did a really great job at that.
> There's a line where suggestions like yours stop being
> criticism and start being opinion, and I don't know
> which side I'm on.
They are pretty much *always* opinions; don't let us push you around. :)
> by not including them in the story I fully expect
> everyone to decide for themselves.
Yup, and that's one of your strong points.
> "Hey, your lawn looks great! Is that the new X36
> riding mower with dual-blade attachment?"
The more you buy, the more you save!
Amy is brilliant. :)
> I tried adding a little more to this one, but I liked it
> less with each fact I added.
I can see how that would be. But I wasn't asking for more facts, per se, just some kind of motivation for the main character. After all, he doesn't seem to like the idea of going to the retirement center, needs to distract himself from the sounds of the Doc's maintenance activities... this is a character with a will to live. There are parts on the way, parts that will replace or improve whatever jurry-rigging the Doc put in place. But rather than staying nearby, he leaves the city.
> He's heading into the aforementioned wasteland. Just... away.
So he just wants to go away, eh? I would try (had I written the rest of this awesome story, which I could never do) something like this:
I thank Doc and head off, creaking, towards the edge of the city and the solitude beyond.
> So for now even though I appreciate your advice I
> don't know that I can apply it here.
Aside from typographical issues, I wouldn't dream of having you change a story once it's been posted. You should post the version you are happy with and leave it at that.
Remember too that I can turn off criticism mode any time you want.
> They are pretty much *always* opinions; don't let us push you around. :)
ReplyDeleteNo... I mean... some things people don't like because they aren't done very well, and some things they don't like because it's not their style. Sometimes those two types of things blur.
> Remember too that I can turn off criticism mode any time you want.
Oh lord no! No, I want more people to give me useful input like this.