The Rise of the Machine

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a post-apocolyptic story. The main character is some sort of seeress that has been charged with the protection of the human race. The Machine in question has been seen before, but no one that has been placed in the Machine has lived to tell about it but her. It is her knowledge that will destroy the Machine.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - The Rise of the Machine

Submitted: January 09, 2010

Reads: 210

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Submitted: January 09, 2010



I always feel guilty. Even when I tell the truth I feel guilty. I can’t explain it, but I always feel this way. I thought eventually I would find peace, but I have not. The part of me that found rest died. I feel compelled to speak the lies everyone wants to hear, even when I would rather not lie, I do. 
For five years I have lived with the same man. I married him, I had his baby. I love him well, and I love my son, but I am not whole.
I ceased to be whole so long ago that I do not recall what it felt like. I cannot recall a time when I felt safe or loved that did not involve my own power. I see things that haven’t happened or things that will if I do not intervene. There are times when I can almost feel my spirit transcend this world and leave my body behind. I remember the first time I felt it, and it was the only time I felt safe.
I lie about what I see and what I feel. It has become so second nature to me that I forget that not everyone is aware of what I can do. I hesitate to touch people because I am afraid of what I may see. My heart bends before me when I touch someone unaware. I feel their life flow through me, and I am aware then of their life in its full force. I cannot speak when this happens, and often I cannot remember until something happens beyond my control that I saw it. Perhaps it is the control of God, or the Gods, or even the Goddess. I feel that no gender or words can describe the spirit that gave me this gift.
Indeed, more gift than curse, it has served its purpose. I foresaw the death of those I loved over and over again. I have great respect for death, but I do not fear it. Death may not conquer love, and it may not own one’s soul. I have no use for those who fear death and cower in the shadows for fear of their own mortality. I am no mistress of magic, nor am I some vanquisher or conqueror. I am not brave, and I am not strong. I am simply me, and I fear nothing but a cage. 
I have loved many, and I have loved often. My pain has fueled this odd gift, and my pain is great. No power on earth can restrain me while I see the truth, but a power beyond this mortal world restrains me nonetheless. I can’t speak the words that want to leave my lips. I am bound for all time, even as Cassandra of Troy was, to speak the truth and never be believed. I can speak and never be heard. Perhaps it is the balance that must be kept. I will never know. The balance that is achieved by my unheard cries is proper but painful. I do not question it, but I regret it.
Regret is a strange creature. It steals your peace of mind and it robs you of sleep. No rest can be attained while regret lives. Someday you must lay it down and accept that time cannot be reversed or changed. The past is the past, and the future is always subject to negotiation. Today is only ours if we learn from the past and prepare for the future. I have had enough regret for many people, but none of it has ever served me any purpose but heartache and headache.
I am no wise-woman and no witch. I am seldom heard or appreciated. My body has been the tool of my choosing. Though I am no beauty, I can only hope that there is some quality I possess that has drawn men to me. By freely giving myself I have earned many names. Whore being the least used but most thought, and slut is the more popular. None of these offend or hurt me. I have become immune to them. It is my body, and I will do as I wish. No one but I must suffer the consequences.
Men have looked at me as a challenge, and women have looked at me as a barrier. Loyalty to myself has never been of any use to me. I have relied on what physical pleasure I can give with my body and the pleasure of the heart I have given by uttering pretty words when they are called for. Though I seem cold, I love humanity. It is love that compels me to say the things I can no longer keep locked inside. I have hidden the secrets of the old ways I strived so hard to learn to keep from appearing crazy. All I have learned has been kept silent by some force I cannot begin to explain.
The consequences, God the Consequences! How many times have I heard the warnings and tasted the fruit? I no longer expect to be heard or even vindicated by these visions. Torment is the only word I have for it. I cannot control what I see, and I cannot control what will become of those involved. I have seen those who attempt to destroy or thwart their visions destroyed by madness or fear. The universe will not permit tampering with her plan, and God will not alter his chosen path for one small fear.
My feet were upon this path long before I chose to walk it. I sorrow at loss, but I have come to accept it. There is nothing that I can do to slow down the progression of time, and there is no reason to believe that time will halt for me. While I live, I will strive to make a difference. Life is short, nasty, and brutish to some, but it is a gift to me. I have a duty to the children of the world, and I may not lay it aside for fear.
Fear is a loathsome and aggravating creature. I have no use for it. It has given me no lessons, and it provided me with nothing of value. I have learned to ignore it. For what it is worth, I will speak to those who are willing to listen. It is for them that there is hope, but the Machine will bend all to its will. I have tasted the Machine’s wrath and power, and I foresee a time when the Machine will have a life and will of its own. 
Beware the Machine! It has power because we allow it, and it will not be out aside. Trust is not an option, and hope and trust are our only gear. Faith is our place of refuge, and dreams are warnings and messages. Only there can the Machine’s power be weakened, for dreams cannot be controlled by method or torture. We make our dreams, and a Machine does not understand that. A Machine has no ambition born of dreams, and ambition born from pure appetite does not have true power. It only has what it can be fed. And I shall not feed it. Will you?

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