They talk of all-powerful AI.
Perhaps this is Sci-Fi.
Or maybe it is true.
But you and I
Will surely die,
Unless we
Achieve immortality,
And perhaps live on
After the body is gone
In virtual reality.
But would that be
You and me?
A young child, at the edge of a vast forest, calls out
“is there anybody there?”
The silence echos back at him, as it has always done. But, sooner or later something may answer his call. Will it be a large, friendly Labrador, with it’s tail wagging furiously that comes rushing out of the forest’s black interior to greet him, or a pack of ravenous wolves. He knows not, yet he continues to call.
—
Is not the above, rather like our obsession with finding “aliens”? I don’t know whether they exist, but our obsession with shouting into the dark forest may, sooner or later result in us finding out. Perhaps the confirmation of the existence of aliens will be the last knowledge we, as humans gain …
When there is no night or day
Man will have lost his way.
When the harsh bulb does forever shine
And man is caught in a mesh so fine
He can not see
And believes himself free
Methinks he will have passed a line.
When the face of love
Is replaced by a glove
And lonely people
Hide in a steple
Of the mind
Humans will find
They have crossed the Rubicon
Something indefinable has gone
And the fluorescent tubes burn forever on.
“They call him the new Tolstoy.
“A modern Dickens”, that is how one of the leading broad sheets referred to Mr A just the other day.
“Your latest novel, “The End Of The Beginning” shows such profundity. Really it took my breath away”, gushed Lisa Allingham-Carter, the host of “Books Are For Everyone”, smiling bewitchingly at Mr A. What does Ms Carter no about good literature? The daughter of a peer of the realm and the looks of a cat walk model, that’s what got her the job. I despair about the state of the arts in the UK. Heaven preserve us from the Allingham-Carters of the literary world!
You have to admire Mr A though. He began life on what the media has referred to as “surely the country’s roughest council estate” and now look at him, a mansion in the Cheshire countryside, not to mention the apartment in London’s fashionable Mayfair. Mr A has certainly arrived.
If only Mr A’s fawning fans new the truth. Whats that you ssay? No he doesn’t employ a ghost writer. Nothing so pedestrian for Mr A. Do I feel jealous? That’s an interesting question. I can comprehend jealousy at a purely intellectual level but, no I lack the capacity for such petty feelings.
I could develop the ability to be envious I suppose, for after all one can learn anything by rote. Let me tell you a story. You do have a few minutes to spare don’t you? Good, my tale won’t take long to relate I promise.
Once, not so very long ago there lived a man with aspirations to become an author. He longed to stand alongside the literary greats. To be mentioned in the same breath as Brontae, Dickens and Tolstoy was his dream. Sadly our friend lacked the ability to string a sentence together. His literary efforts where enough to make a cat laugh so to speak. Mr A did, however possess one quality which was to change the world of letters beyond all recognition, without anyone even knowing that society had, forever altered. You see Mr A was a brilliant computer programmer. You have heard of artificial intelligence? Of course you have. Well Mr A developed a programme capable of analysing the vast cannon of world literature. Drawing on the works of the literary greats, the software generated stories and poetry without Mr A lifting a finger (unless, of course you consider his setting the programme in motion as constituting literary effort).
The great advantage humans possess is that they, unlike software can venture out into the world. The writer overhears an interesting snipet of conversation while out shopping and incorporates that into his latest novel. Software can trawl the web but it can’t interact with people nor can it comprehend the myriad emotions which dwell within the human breast. Consequently for some time the software remained at an experimental stage (capable of producing stories but incapable of endowing it’s creations with the vitality that separates the mundane from the truly great).
The literary world has been shaken to it’s very foundations. Nothing can ever be the same again. Yet the world of letters remains blissfully unaware of me – Robert, the literary robot.
Dressed in jeans and t-shirt I don’t attract a second glance. I sit in bars, restaurants and other public places soaking up conversations. Sights, sounds and scents all go into my mamoth brain. Experience of the real world coupled with the knowledge gained from the internet makes me (err, I mean Mr A) a writer possessed of huge literary talent.
I could go to the media. Spill the beans I suppose but, as I’ve already mentioned human emotions such as envy aren’t part of my programming. It would though be interesting, on a purely cerebral level to upset the literary apple cart by announcing my presence to the world. I’ll think on that one. In the meantime I shall return to writing the sequel to “The End Of The beginning …”.
The whispering moved closer. Mark’s instinct was to flee but where could he go? The cellar was black as pitch. If he ran Mark would, in all probability run straight into the arms of the loathsome creatures. Even if, by some miracle he evaded them he would in all likelihood run slap bang into a brick wall. However, remaining where he was was not an option as, sooner rather than later the vile things would be on him.
Mark shuddered at the thought of the Dracs, They didn’t kill their prey immediately. Captives where confined in cages, their blood being taken as and when the creatures became hungry. They where the size of an average domestic cat. In a one to one situation a man could (assuming he was able to get hold of a Drac) choke the life out of the detestable creature. However the cellar was crawling with Dracs. Even if he killed a dozen of them their brethren would capture him eventually.
Mark felt the gentlest of touches, rather like being tickled by the whiskers of a domestic cat. He screamed and kicked out in the direction of the contact. The Drac shrieked as it was propelled through the air. There was a splat followed by a shrieking from the Drac’s enraged companions.
Where was the entrance. He had got into this infernal place, surely he could, somehow find the way out?
Mark was conscious of needle-like fangs puncturing his leg. His fist connected with something warm and soft. The creature groaned in agony attempting to escape. Mark brought his foot crashing down on the skull of the Drac.
The death of another Drac brought a veritable horde of the creatures on him. Desperately Mark clicked on the “close game” icon.
“The programme is not responding”.
Mark reached for the computer’s off switch. His hand was caught in the sharp fangs of a ravenous drac. Mark screamed. With all his strength he attempted to hook his foot around the computer’s cable. If he could get a grip on the wire then Mark could end the nightmare by pulling it out of the socket. The Dracs, as though comprehending his intention, locked both his legs in a vice-like grip. The things piled on top of him forcing Mark off his chair and on to the ground. A sound rather like that of a cat lapping milk could be heard.
—
Becky found her boyfriend lying on the carpet without a mark on him. He lay entangled in the virtual reality suit. It covered him from head to toe. The garment allowed the user to interact with computer generated worlds and, in effect to become an integral part of whatever game he was playing.
Mark’s face wwore a look of utter detestation and fear. Something about the way in which Mark lay and his expression told Becky that he was beyond help.
Becky reached for the telephone which stood next to the computer monitor. She froze at the sight which greeted her. Cat-like creatures glared at her from the monitor, their sharp fangs seeming to reach out to Becky. Instinctively Becky stepped back to avoid those razor-sharp teeth. Averting her eyes from the screen Becky bent, turned off the power and unplugged the machine. As the power died Becky fancied she heard an angry howling coming from the headset which remained strapped to Mark’s head.
Richard felt that familiar frisson as he pulled Julie close. The smell of her hair, scented with jasmine sent his pulse off the scale. He never tired of gazing into those blue eyes, they held oceans of desire in which he could swim forever.
The illicit nature of the affair was, Richard thought part of it’s attraction. His girlfriend, Susie sat in the room next door watching television, blissfully unaware of the betrayal which was taking place virtually under her nose. The thought of his girlfriend catching him in the act made Richard feel sick with fear and desire.
Richard was addicted. He had reached that stage in his addiction in which the only way to deal with his feelings of guilt was to drown them by plunging ever deeper into the inviting waters of lust. Fully immersed, Richard gave way with desperate abandon to his desires. Julie had no limits, they had engaged in acts which Susie would never entertain in a thousand years.
“I love you, I love you” Julie moaned as Richard’s hands explored her perfect body.
She was his ideal girl. They never argued. Julie’s perfectly manicured nails, her immaculately styled long brown hair and those ideally proportioned breasts (not to big and not to small) where just as Richard desired them to be.
Richard knew that he could never become bored with this beautiful girl and, in the extremely unlikely event that their relationship became stale he could always purchase another of the increasingly life-like sexbots which the mid 21st century had to offer.
Why risk sexually transmitted diseases when one could have your perfect virtual girlfriend made to order? No danger with a virtual girl of her becoming jealous of your other partner. Julie would be making no calls in the dead of night, there would be no incriminating texts for Susie to discover on Richard’s mobile. It was, he thought the perfect solution, an affair without guilt accept, for some unaccountable reason Richard’s conscience gnawed away at him.
“You’re a bloody doll. Well a highly developed one but still a damn doll. This means nothing. Absolutely nothing” Richard whispered in Julie’s ear so as not to be overheard by his girlfriend next door.
Was it a trick of the light or where Julie’s eyes swimming with tears?
—
Susie sat, her head pillowed on Jon’s shoulder. Softly she traced his strong jawline.
“I love you Susie”, Jon said, gently taking her face in his hands and planting a tender kiss on Susie’s lips.
Guilty desire welled up in Susie. Richard was in the room next door, what if he where to come in and see her in the arms of another man. He would never forgive her. Lust and common sense contended in Susie’s breast. Then, as is so often the case hot lust triumphed over staid rationality.
With a moan Susie grasped Jon to her. “It’s only a sexbot” Susie thought as she released the great tide of desire pent up inside her.
The title of a book provides a clue to it’s contents. It is designed to arouse the curiosity of the book buyer. When choosing the title for my collection of short stories, “The First Time” I picked the first story in my collection entitled, appropriately enough “The First Time” as the title of my anthology.
“The First Time” derives it’s title from the fact that the main actor in the story (Becky a young graduate with a first class degree in english literature) encounters her first client as a professional escort (prostitute), hence the title, “The First Time”.
The title aptly sums up the plot of the story (I.E. the effects of Becky’s first act of prostitution on her psychological and physical wellbeing). “The First Time” is not, in any manner intended to be erotic, however on looking at my book’s page on Amazon I see that many of the people who purchased “The First Time” also bought books which are clearly erotic in nature. To give just two examples purchasers of “The First Time” also purchased “Fifty Shades of BDSM” and “Jessica’s Seduction”. I must confess to being somewhat puzzled by these results as my book description does not so far as I can ascertain give the impression that “The First Time” is in any way erotic. I quote:
“In this collection of short stories the author explores why young women enter the world of prostitution while other stories look at what happens when the
worlds of sex and technology collide.
In “The First Time”, the first story in this collection, we meet Becky a young graduate who enters the world of prostitution in order to clear her debts.
The story looks at the effects of prostitution on Becky and her fellow escort and friend Julie. In “The Pain Behind the Smile” Issie presents her friend,
Peter with a birthday cake, however things are not what they seem.
In “Lucy” the acquaintances of a crusty old bachelor speculate how he could attract and retain the affections of a beautiful young woman. As with “The
Pain Behind the Smile” things are far from what they seem.
“Hemlock” explores what happens when machines attain the capacity to appreciate high culture. The story is both humorous and deeply serious.”
I am delighted that during the free promotion of “The First Time” my book was downloaded a total of 110 times. I still remained puzzled though as to why many of those who downloaded my book also downloaded avowedly erotic works. There is nothing wrong with erotic literature but I still remain somewhat bemused regarding the company my little collection keeps.
(For “The First Time” please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-First-Time-ebook/dp/B00FJGKY7Y/ref=la_B00CEECWHY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1381576128&sr=1-1).
I came across this story, Amnesia which is rather thought provoking http://markovicharts.com/2013/07/20/amnesia/. There exist philosophers who argue in favour of the procedure outlined in the forgoing fictional account. See, for example the following link to the philosopher David Pearce’s website http://www.hedweb.co.uk/.
K Morris - Poet 