She Who Wrote the World – Part Four: The Creator and the Fish

She Who Wrote the World, a novella by Hannah Brewster-Stein

Part Four : The Creator



Time was running out.  The Author had become increasingly erratic the larger it grew and now he feared what she was about to do.  Bringing in the recorder had served to heighten his fear.  And the girl she chose, knowing the Author as well as he did, was an ominous sign of her intentions.


The moon was a small sliver tonight, amidst the thickening clouds of impending rain.  He created this darkness through a series of intricate codes that directed the artificial atmosphere, (being comprised of nanobots), how to behave.  Once the nanobots had completed their original assignment of relocating the smog, he had reprogrammed them to create the perfect weather conditions for the oasis of the West.  It was so automatic to his processing chip now that merely thinking a command had the task completed instantly.


He needed the darkness to hide the notoriety of his face. The rain would not fall for two more hours, giving him plenty of time to find the operator and get back without getting caught in his own storm. 


Despite the weather, he passed a group of joggers and tucked his hood low over his eyes.  There were many that preferred the evening cool, but the Author preferred the day to be kept balmy, in as much as would allow the land to flourish.  One recognition was all that was needed to send his face over the vast brain interconnection and tell the Author where he was.  And she would want to know why he was not at home.  He began a slow jog himself.  Just another jogger getting some air before the storm.


He had most of the supplies he needed, but had difficulty obtaining the last few chemicals.  The Author had become tyrannical during trade talks with the East.  Initially, there had been distrust, distaste, but allowances had been made, tolerances given, for the differing religious and culturally structured governments.  But in the past few years, the Author had publicly denounced the East and had demanded submission to her ways.  Trade talks inevitably had broken down and now the West was starting to run dry.  The East felt it too, he was sure.  After all, no one there had the same ability to create his technology.  Although, it was the outdated methods he needed to try now.  Now that nothing he tried was working anymore.


Relying on a black-market operator had become his only option.  It was outside the usual running hours of legitimate business, but he knew the night hosted an array of illegal activities. 

And since he created the brain chips, he knew where he could find anyone and anything at any time.  Just follow the route address.  


Only a few miles out from the walls surrounding the Author’s glass towers he observed the change in landscape from polished marble and glimmering crystals (as beautiful as they were useful to transmit wireless signals) to what looked more like broken clay pots, upturned to form dwellings.  This part had been devastated by civil war and looked like a child tried to tape it back together, but then got bored and smashed it some more.   This was the infamous east side of town.  Even an oasis has its east.  He was getting close.




The Fish (A Parable)


Listen to my story and learn wisdom.  I, the Author, am conveying my truths.

Once there lived a boy who spent his days fishing.  He loved to catch them, hurl them into the boat, capture a photo and share it through his interconnection and then throw the fish back into the waters.  However, some of the fish he would take home, gut and eat. 


One fish, after having been thrown overboard, came swimming back up to the surface and looked at the boy.


“You must stop this.” the fish said. “It’s quite a horrible experience for us down here.  We never know if we are going to live or die.  Those you catch are never quite the same afterward.  They have post-traumatic stress disorder, start smoking seaweed, and some even hurl themselves into shark mouths.”


The boy, of course, was very surprised at hearing this information. 


“Alright,” he said, “so, it will be better if I kill everything I catch.” 


Faster than the fish could protest, the boy swooped it up in a net, brought it onto the  boat deck and smashed its head with a rock.


Eventually the boy’s freezer became too full of fish to bring anymore home.  He would have no choice, but to throw some back if he wanted to continue his hobby. 


So, the boy went fishing and this time, after catching a large fish and sending his photo off for the world to see, he threw it back into the water.


The fish came swimming back up to the surface.


“Thank you,” the fish exclaimed, “You have no idea what it has been like for us.  All the fish were depressed knowing they could be killed at any moment.  All hope was lost, but now it is restored.”


The fish teach us that our perspectives can be altered by trial.  Trial is prescribed to those who do not learn contentment in their present state, in their present, ordinary trials.  Like the boy, I am the catalyst of trial in this world and I do as I see fit.  No fish can change the will of the boy from doing what he will. 



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