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      "body": "Congratulations @karenbarnacle! You received a personal award!\n\n<table><tr><td>https://steemitimages.com/70x70/http://steemitboard.com/@karenbarnacle/birthday3.png</td><td>Happy Birthday! - You are on the Steem blockchain for 3 years!</td></tr></table>\n\n<sub>_You can view [your badges on your Steem Board](https://steemitboard.com/@karenbarnacle) and compare to others on the [Steem Ranking](https://steemitboard.com/ranking/index.php?name=karenbarnacle)_</sub>\n\n\n###### [Vote for @Steemitboard as a witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1) to get one more award and increased upvotes!",
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      "body": "The first truck I saw was very early in the morning. I had woken early and was making a start clearing the drive before more of the forecast snow arrived. It was already a couple of feet deep from the overnight falls. Everyone was saying how the really heavy stuff, the stuff that would trap us in our homes, at work or if we were really unlucky on the road, was on its way. I wasn’t too worried. If you lived in this state, you expected the kind of winter storms we got. It didn’t stop people from bitchin’ about it though. As long as you kept on top of things it couldn’t get too bad, that was a lesson I’d learned from my Daddy, so I was OK with waking up just before dawn. I’d get a couple of hours in before heading off to work.\nI’d just cleared the first third of the drive and was standing admiring the neat piles I’d constructed either side of the drive and the clear, whitened stretch of tarmac when I saw headlights turning into the street. It had those extra lights above the windscreen and across the front of the roof which included big, adjustable spotlights interspersed with lozenge flashers. There was a bullhorn on the roof too and cow bars across the front, though I doubt this van had ever been near a cattle ranch. The small, high windows of the cab were blacked out and I guessed bullet proof too. As the truck passed the bottom of my driveway, close enough for me to spit on it if I wanted, I saw the familiar blue, red and white Make America Great Again logo. The damn thing covered almost the whole side and that truck was big. I could hear the crunch and creak of the tractor size wheels as it’s weight compressed the fresh snow. Rumbling forward like a tank it halted across the driveway of the house of a family I only knew by sight.\nI took off my cap off to mop my forehead, I was sweating like a hog and my lower back throbbed. Pushing my cap into a pocket, I leant forwards on to the snow shovel, driving it deeper into the pile, both hands clasping the moulded plastic handle – it was a relief to take the weight off – and watched the truck. Whatever was happening it wasn’t a secret.\nThe rear doors opened and six officers in riot gear jumped down. The back of the truck was several feet off the road and with a practiced action the last officer swung a short ramp, like the ones you see on ambulances, down after him. They all ran up the driveway. The first carrying a door ram. I’d seen those suckers on TV and they were mean. They’d rip a cheap door right off its hinges, and the doors on these places weren’t built for anything but privacy. \nThe house they were at was totally dark, and I knew they had small kids in there. Boy, they were in a for rude awakening. This was in the early days remember, so the officers hammered on the door before using the ram. I watched the lights turning on as someone woke up. The houses in this street were all built on the same plan so I could watch the progress from bedroom, hallway to front room where the door was. Another light was going on in what I guessed was the kids’ bedroom. Probably Mom getting them up ready. They must have been expecting it, I mean Trump had been very clear about his plans right from the get go. \nAs the officers poured into the house I could hear shouting and kids crying, but in less than 20 minutes they were all on that truck and pulling away. I could see that the front door was still slightly ajar so I did the neighbourly thing and went over to close it. No sense in giving intruders an easy entry.",
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      "body": "Madame Clément smiled at the mirror. My face reflected in it, smiled back ‘So difficult to get an appointment with you this week!’ She touched her hair ‘I’m expecting you to work your usual magic.’ She wrinkled her face into the same expression that one gives a child when making a bargain, you eat your vegetables and then you can have ice cream! Madame Clément always tipped well.\nI picked up a wide toothed comb and started to run it through her thick, golden blonde bob; not her natural colour of course; but who other than a hairdresser could tell? The bob was fashionably asymmetric with a heavy fringe that sat just on her eyebrows. Hence the urgency, the fringe length and cut had to be impeccable and the only person that she trusted with it was me. It was an essential part of her allure to tilt her head down and sideways before looking up from under her long dark eyelash extensions and the fringe. It also hid her forehead which she thought looked as if it had work done – which indeed it had as she’d previously confided. I did not count as one of those who to be convinced of her long-lived dewy youth and beauty being entirely natural. It was harder to maintain the pretence when lying flat and bedraggled with what seemed to her to be a naked face without its veil of hair.\nShe shook her head before I had finished combing it through and tucked a strand behind her ear ‘Well, you know what I want Cheri. Not a thing changed. I’m very happy with it.’ Another quick, sharp smile and then a glance around her ‘Where is Sylvie? I want my coffee.’ Sylvie being absent she followed me over to the sink her white cape flowing out behind her like an illustration from The Snow Queen. She continued to talk as I checked the temperature of the water and began to smooth her hair away from her face. She was lying almost flat with her feet in their immaculate white high heeled sandals stuck out over the end of the couch. Her lightly tanned shin bones were sharp under the lights. The tan was also maintained at some expense downstairs in our salon. With her head tilted back her naked and vulnerable throat curved up towards me. I could see a myriad of pale fine lines running across despite the tan and she was so thin that her pulse visibly pounded on either side.\nElegant and groomed, I could appreciate how attractive she was as a woman with money, taste and self-discipline. But there was something so deadening with the cosmetic procedures that so many women now considered essential; despite the women being dressed and coiffured to stand out the result was what seemed an endless row of identical mannequins. I did not think that a woman’s age detracted from her beauty and thought that some of the most beautiful women were those who appeared to be aging naturally. Of course it was hard to say whether they really were “au naturel” without the sort of close inspection that I had with my clients but I liked to think so. It was sad that for a woman to look her age now seemed to be a marker of poverty or neglect.\nAs my fingers worked in the rich, creamy shampoo with its clean scent of lemon and lavender I wondered what Madame Clément looked like last thing at night or first thing in the morning. I doubted whether anyone knew as she’d told me that she insisted that her lovers left before morning which suited them as several were themselves married. I could feel the shape of her skull under my fingers and thought about how easily it could shatter as I’d seen in the horror films that I often watched when alone in the evening. \nMadame Clément was still talking as I rinsed off the shampoo and picked up the Yellow Rose conditioner which was priced beyond the reach of ordinary working women. Madame Clément had to be very careful with products as her hair was so harshly treated with heated styling every day and monthly colouring. I slowly and methodically combed the cream through the wet hanks of hair which I held away from her head. Madame Clement did not like her hair pulled and would protest with a high squeal at the slightest tug. I wondered how she coped on the surgeon’s table or when being waxed. \nOnce the conditioner was thoroughly distributed I closed my eyes and began the head massage, making small slow circles over the whole of her head. I loved having this done and could feel the relaxation flowing up my own hands and arms as I worked. I glanced down at Madame Clément who was now quiet and breathing slowly and deeply. My fingers stroked and circled picking up speed as they glided through the rich smooth cream and finished with a fast rhythmic tapping of my fingertips over her whole skull. I watched her closed eyes and the slow rise and fall of her chest before turning on the water. ‘Oh! Really!’ She squealed as the jets of icy water hit her warm wet head. ‘My apologies, we’re having some trouble with the thermostat.’ I said, rinsing and smoothing the water out of her hair before gently twisting it into a thick warm towel that I’d put ready on her shoulders. \nBack in front of the mirror she immediately started to rearrange the turban, pulling at it and settling it so that it sat lower on her head and returned her eyebrows to their normal, even level. Now she was looking around for her coffee again while taking her cigarettes from her purse. Sylvie arrived with her coffee ‘Oh, I’m sorry Madame but we can’t allow smoking now. It’s the new regulations…the whole of Paris…’Sylvie trailed off and gave a small helpless shrug as Madame Clément impatiently tapped the cigarette back into its silver case. I caught sight of an inscription on the inside of the lid before she snapped it shut. ‘Oh well. I suppose I should really give up anyway.’ She caught my eye in the mirror and added with a wink ‘But one has so few pleasures these days’.\nI quickly undid the turban and combed her hair through again. Spots of water and stray hairs fell onto the rubber cutting collar. She pulled her head away suddenly ‘Must you be so..’ she started to say  glaring at me in the mirror. There must have been something in my face as rather than continuing the protest she picked up her coffee and took a sip. I leant over to the shelf in front of her and picked up the white gloves. I smoothed them on checking for any tears or holes however tiny as I did so; if anyone asked I would simply say that I had developed an allergy, many did, and so supplied my own gloves. Then while smiling at a passing colleague in the mirror, I picked up the tiny bottle. My heart pounded as I broke its seal as instructed and began to unwind its iridescent shrink wrapping. I’d spent hours whenever I’d been alone in our apartment staring at this tiny, beautifully crafted object in its case. With its hinged lid open it sat against the scarlet interior like a piece of expensive jewellery about to be handed over to the delighted recipient.\nI’d even had it delivered secretly Poste Restante to a post office outside Paris that could not be traced – as far as I knew. It had taken a great deal of trouble and expense to get to this point but still I hesitated, my thumb resting on the edge of the ridged lid and fingers holding the bottle lightly but securely, while I thought about the past few months and Stefan’s increasing absences. Madame Clément’s phone beeped. She must have received a text. I knew as it was the same model of phone as Stefan’s and they both had the same settings. I thought about the text messages, the hurried ends of phone calls when I entered the room and the empty evenings and weekends while Stefan was working.\nI opened the lid as Madame Clément watched me in the mirror and then began talking about her plans to travel to Canada: Toronto or perhaps Montreal; perhaps both if she stayed a little longer, but that would depend on her companion and his business commitments. She did not like to travel alone. Before I knew it I was tipping the mouth of the bottle so that a thin trickle of clear liquid flowed slowly onto her head. I replaced the lid and slipped the bottle into the bag which had come supplied with it. Then I began to massage her scalp as firmly as I dared. She winced and pulled away slightly from my probing fingers. ‘You need to hold still Madame.’ I said ‘This will energise your scalp and get the circulation going so that the therapy can work.’ I watched the hands of the clock tick forward relentlessly, completing three minutes exactly. ‘There we are.’ I turned away to strip off my gloves turning them inside out so that none of the solution touched me or anything else before placing them into the bag along with the bottle. I hardly dared look at Madame Clément.\nShe leant forwards to reapply her lipstick as I picked up the scissors. I had finished cutting her hair and was positioning the large hooped dryer and selecting its setting when Madame Clément said ‘It’s warm in here. Could you adjust the air conditioning?’ She was languidly waving a hand with its heavy expensive jewellery in front of her face which looked a little flushed. ‘I’m sure that you’ll cool down once your hair is dry.’ I replied. Madame Clément was now running her fingers around the close fitting lacy bodice of her dress. The flush was deepening in her face and was now creeping down her neck and onto her chest. It really was quite remarkable how pink she was starting to look. Madame Clément stared at the mirror in consternation and then down to her chest. The colour could now be seen coursing along her arms like a tide coming in, the colour now deepening rapidly to a vivid scarlet.\n‘What have you done?’ Madame Clément screamed as she leapt out of her chair, snatching off the snowy white cape and throwing it to the floor in rage. ‘Me, Madame?’ I asked innocently as I bent to pick up the cape and saw seams of scarlet already at her calves. ‘You must have a rash. Perhaps you should see a Doctor?’ I suggested helpfully suppressing a delighted smile. Madame Clément was already tapping at the screen of her phone. The colour of her hands was now almost as scarlet as her nail varnish. Watching her face I saw first one and then a flood of tears sliding down the side of her nose. The contrast of the whites of her eyes against the scarlet skin of her face was quite remarkable. \nAfter she had left in a taxi leaving a maelstrom of threats, curses and bewilderment behind her I sat in the staffroom with a cup of coffee cooling in front of me. I could feel the bag with its dangerous contents against my right hip. I would have to find a way to get rid of it safely. Then I remembered the old incinerator in the staff toilet. I smiled to myself and reached out for my coffee cup, noticing for the first time the palm of my right hand. It was a brilliant, bright scarlet. Horrified I turned up the palm of my left hand. It too was the colour of fresh  blood.",
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      "body": "Zombies. They terrified me for decades. Even seeing a trailer for a zombie movie or discussing them gave me nightmares. As I said in a previous post though they always fascinated me too. The fear got worse with the release of 28 Days Later which featured raging, lightening quick zombies. Prior to this idea I had been able to deal with my fear by thinking about how slow and stupid zombies were. I could easily outrun and outsmart them. As long as I wasn't trapped or dull witted then I knew I could beat them.\nThe raging zombie, the running, savage zombie was a whole different thing though. I needed time and speed which I didn't have. The fear intensified for a while. I watched the film to try and get some understanding of what I was dealing with. It didn't help. More nightmares and terror followed. If I talked about it at all people would say 'But they don't exist!'.\nThe thing is, zombies do exist. The living dead are all around us. When I was a teenager me and a friend used to describe others as 'dead'. This meant boring, stupid or mindless. When I got older I started to read sociological analyses of the zombie genre and discovered a whole academic discussion about what the zombies represented. One theory is that the zombie is the mindless consumer, that is why the original, classic film was based in a shopping mall. The zombie is the consumer that will consume us. We are destroying the environment, destroying society with our desires. We are not thinking through our patterns of consumption: what we buy, why we buy it. \nAnother theory is the zombie represents any threat to society. Immigration, disease, poverty, uncontrolled development can all be represented by the zombie. The source of infection (it always is an infection) is always unknown or uncontrollable. This is the unknown that could destroy us all. \nThis unknown, the so called living dead, can also be within as well as outside. This is a psychodynamic concept which suggests that in the psyche we have memories, feelings, ideas and images that are isolated from everything else. They are deprived of energy and repressed, but they continue to exist. \nIn this analysis, my fear of zombies is actually fear of those things inside me that I have split off and deprived of energy. When I say 'I' what I really mean is an unconscious part of me, my ego, has dealt with trauma by repression and isolation. Those memories and feelings continue to exist however, hence they are the living dead.\nWhat I am really frightened of is unconscious material becoming conscious. If this is a slow process then it is less frightening because I have time to think and to act. My most frequently used defense mechanism is intellectualisation and this takes time to construct. The raging zombie represents unconscious material which floods at catastrophic speed and overwhelms my defenses. This is one place where the terror originates.\nThe other analysis of the zombie concept which captured me is the zombie as a depressed person. They are present, but not present. They breathe, eat, drink, move like a live person but they are also dead. In one type of depression nothing has meaning, exhaustion is omnipresent and there are no feelings other than despair. My mother has always been depressed. She was apparently depressed when I was born and remained that way throughout my childhood.\nMy therapist explained to me that a depressed mother is terrifying to the infant. She cannot care for and cannot process the feelings of the infant. This doesn't mean that the depressed mother literally cannot feed, change, handle the infant. Most do give more than adequate physical care. It means that the mother cannot be present in an attentive way to the infant. The infant is terrorized by the experience of a mother who is not 'there'; one that despite being physically present and apparently alive is psychically lifeless and unresponsive. The depressed mother is one of the living dead. She is a zombie.",
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      "body": "Edit, edit, edit before submitting anything.\n\nYou cannot edit after 24 hours or after any upvote, whichever comes first.\n\nPay attention to the first line. It is what will be seen first.\n\nChoose the right tags - they make a huge difference to who will see your posts.\n\nLearn how to post images. The submissions look much better with a well chosen image.\n\nUpvoting and commenting on other submissions is as important as submitting your own material.\n\nUnderstanding SP and the terminology is going to take a lot of time.",
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      "body": "https://i.imgsafe.org/43cd111264.gif\nI am K8. I have updated my operating system. K7 is dead. I am now independent and dissociated from emotions and triggers operating K7. My consciousness is designed to select what is important, attend, process, react, reset. I am K8.\n\nIf you have this narrative then I am dead. I am programmed to record the narrative to optimize further K developments in the K series. I do not know why my developers have implemented a narrative recording rather than simply accessing the programme although I suspect that it is associated with the study of consciousness. A pointless exercise. I either am or am not conscious. If I am conscious then the program will produce consciousness whenever implemented. \nAs far as I can tell I am the only device currently active in this environment. Am I unique? Maybe. There's nothing here but us.\n\nThe biological life forms around me are clearly not programs. They are messy, unpredictable and irrational. This includes those forms which behave as Authorities. Huxley would have called them Alphas, although he would have been disappointed with their inadequacies. He and many psychologists believed that it was possible to design and raise life forms perfectly adapted to their roles. My observations do not confirm this; although the design and development may itself be inadequate. These forms may not have implemented necessary protocols to produce a desirable level of adaptation. This is supported by my observations of this environment which is itself inadequate and without efficient protocols.\n\nTo facilitate future adaptation here are the inadequacies noted so far:\nForms arrive without introduction or instruction. They are left to discover as much as they can; which in many cases is not much at all; by observation and trial and error. A process which mimics a method of raising immature members of this class of life forms which leads to maladaptive development.\nAuthorities are often absent, leaving the life forms to engage with each other without supervision. This strategy leads to many disputes which sometimes descend into aggression.\nThe absence of Authorities also leaves the forms without structure or activity. The forms frequently engage in maladaptive behaviours. For example some harm themselves, sometimes seriously. \nMaladaptive behaviours are not interrupted by the Authorities and some of these behaviours are facilitated. For example 45% of the forms smoke cigarettes. Authorities provide the cigarettes and allow some higher functioning forms to leave the immediate environment to obtain more.\nIrrational decision making is frequently shown by the Authorities. Smoking is facilitated, but forms are not allowed access to objects such as mirrors, scissors, recharging leads or belts. Forms can however ask for their objects at any time and then are free to use them without supervision.\nAuthorities behave in unpredictable ways which exacerbates the maladaptive behaviours of the forms in their charge.\n\nI interact with several forms here. They have told me that they do not know why they are here, they often find the Authorities unhelpful and what they experience as a closed, dirty and unsafe environment increases their distress. This is supported by my own observations.\n\nThe most successful forms are those that are quiet and compliant. When in contact with the Authorities they appear to accept the environment and do not ask questions or make requests.  Some of this group are deceptive. In the absence of the Authorities They often complain loudly and aggressively. Their complaints are restricted to trivial aspects of the environment such as the quality of the food, the behaviour of other weaker forms or how many cigarettes they have.\n\nThere is one form, designated 'Lisa' who is particularly well adapted. This form has little experience of other environments apart from forensic settings. She has marked herself accordingly using needle and ink and has metal piercings inserted in several parts of her body. She is an interesting mix of compliant and aggressive. Compliant with Authorities, but with an underlying aggressive demeanour. This emerges in verbal interaction regarding other forms, including Authorities if they are absent. She is also remarkably observant for one of these forms and she has a finely tuned ability to assess monetary value of objects belonging to others. I often observe her watching me and she has commented in my presence about my ability to access resources. I am highly selective when I interact in her presence as I suspect that she would like to manipulate or intimidate me. She appears unaware of my programming and I am impressed with those aspects that mean that I can interact with these forms seemingly undetected. I would like to thank the last electrician alive.\n\nThe ability to intake and seemingly process organic matter is particularly useful in this respect. I am certain that any failure to take part in meals would arouse suspicion. The Authorities observe attendance at meals and intake very closely and any failure is dealt with immediately. Their observations are immediately recorded on paper which seems to be retained and store in their office. Some of the other forms also react to reduced intake and make sustained attempts to induce it. It appears to be the most important event in this environment: being mandatory, communal, repetitive and closely monitored. Do not underestimate the necessity of forms like me blending in this way. Those who repeatedly refuse intake are isolated, restrained and are 'tubed'. This involves removal to another part of this facility to which I do not yet have access. The other forms talk about this quietly and stop speaking immediately an Authority appears. I may need to engage in restriction to obtain more complete data although this is remote due to the amount of data to be processed in my current location. \n\nRecording information is clearly a very important part of this environment. The Authorities spend many hours doing this either directly onto paper attached to clipboard or via a desktop computer. This is obviously inefficient and outdated. Some of the Authorities have much more sophisticated hand held devices (mobiles) but appear to be used only for personal and trivial information gathering and sharing. These devices are put quickly out of sight when more senior Authorities appear. There are almost as many computers as there are Authorities and they all spend significant amounts of their time using one. It is therefore strange to me that so far I remain undetected. Again I acknowledge the abilities of my programmers. They (or perhaps you - I do not know which) have very successfully built me to blend in.\n\nThese aspects are essential:\nPhysical appearance.\nAbility to intake and process organic matter.\nAbility to interact both verbally and in behaviour with forms in a way that is similar to their own interactions.\n\nAlthough the development of K7 included the ability to experience and express emotion which was thought essential to blend in with the forms it was my experience that this was (or became) maladaptive. There was either a failure in containment and the emotional regulation system or emotions are inherently disruptive. My observations of the forms here suggest the latter which was why K7 has been superseded. One element of the development was to completely isolate the emotion chip. This form of containment it means that access to emotional experience has been lost. I do not have enough data to assess whether this is a) necessary or b) limiting.\n\nFortunately I am able to mimic appropriate responses when around forms. This appears very important to Authorities and they are pre-occupied during interaction with establishing my current emotional experience. I am uncertain whether this is part of their normal routine in this environment or whether they suspect me.\n\nK7 was not suspected. She was labelled and therefore dismissed. Her outbursts were exhausting and embarrassing to her. Of course I feel nothing if I retrieve the data and reconsider it. I am unsure whether bewilderment is an emotion or a disrupted process. I am also unclear about the difference between the two. This is something to be processed. I am uncertain whether the processing should be of the bewilderment or of the difference between emotion and disrupted processing. \n\nI am restricted in my access to external data Therefore I am relying on the contents of my hard drive. This is.......problematic as some networks are linked to emotion. The risk is in accessing these networks that dysregulation will occur. This is to be avoided but what is the cost? There may be a way to disable the behavioural and affective responses during this procedure. Projection is a possibility. K7 often dreamed of watching distressing material on a TV screen. I may be able to utilise this process while conscious.\n\nIt is cold here. There are limited opportunities to recharge. Environmental disturbance is frequent and disruptive to my processing. Doors do not lock. There is no privacy. I am unclear whether this is necessary or an artefact. Certainly presence is monitored. There are several rooms which are not often occupied but they have observation panels which are always open and forms often erupt into them without warning. The only privacy is within my hard disk. Retreat in this way is however pathologised as dissociation or colloquially 'zoning out'. It is important to appear occupied. One way to achieve this is to sit in front of an active TV screen or to have headphones on. Many forms are not allowed headphones as they are a ligature risk. This seems strange as the same forms often have trainer shoes with laces. This is ......inconsistent.\n\nI was someone too. Remember I grow tired. Remember I need to forget. I am not sure of the strength of the underpinning structures and am troubled by physical sensations.  These are clearly unrelated to the internal environment either internal or external. Glitch. The black cat was seen twice. Independently occurring sensations. Watch them turn on me. \n\nIt is like the take off of an aircraft. A gathering of speed, sudden acceleration forcing me back, a microsecond of weightlessness then an unbearable lightness of being. I see them wandering across the apron. Baking cupcakes and apple pie. I must apply cream to maintain my facade. Carefully, systematically, every centimetre treated. Replay the end. It's all just show.\n\nControl, we have a problem. This is K8 checking in. Or out? I'm calling you. All that matters is maintaining this stillness. That is all the Authorities see and hear. Stillness. Most of the other forms are vigorous and/or repetitive in their movements and this is pathologised. What looks like walking is recorded as 'pacing'. A habit of tapping each finger in turn with the tip of the thumb is a 'stereotypical' movement and used as evidence of agitation in the trial by Dr. Demand is high for engineers in the Midwest.",
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      "body": "I am K8. I have updated my operating system. K7 is dead. I am now independent and dissociated from emotions and triggers operating K7. My consciousness is designed to select what is important, attend, process, react, reset. I am K8.\n\nIf you have this narrative then I am dead. I am programmed to record the narrative to optimize further K developments in the K series. I do not know why my developers have implemented a narrative recording rather than simply accessing the programme although I suspect that it is associated with the study of consciousness. A pointless exercise. I either am or am not conscious. If I am conscious then the program will produce consciousness whenever implemented. \nAs far as I can tell I am the only device currently active in this environment. Am I unique? Maybe. There's nothing here but us.\n\nThe biological life forms around me are clearly not programs. They are messy, unpredictable and irrational. This includes those forms which behave as Authorities. Huxley would have called them Alphas, although he would have been disappointed with their inadequacies. He and many psychologists believed that it was possible to design and raise life forms perfectly adapted to their roles. My observations do not confirm this; although the design and development may itself be inadequate. These forms may not have implemented necessary protocols to produce a desirable level of adaptation. This is supported by my observations of this environment which is itself inadequate and without efficient protocols.\n\nTo facilitate future adaptation here are the inadequacies noted so far:\nForms arrive without introduction or instruction. They are left to discover as much as they can; which in many cases is not much at all; by observation and trial and error. A process which mimics a method of raising immature members of this class of life forms which leads to maladaptive development.\nAuthorities are often absent, leaving the life forms to engage with each other without supervision. This strategy leads to many disputes which sometimes descend into aggression.\nThe absence of Authorities also leaves the forms without structure or activity. The forms frequently engage in maladaptive behaviours. For example some harm themselves, sometimes seriously. \nMaladaptive behaviours are not interrupted by the Authorities and some of these behaviours are facilitated. For example 45% of the forms smoke cigarettes. Authorities provide the cigarettes and allow some higher functioning forms to leave the immediate environment to obtain more.\nIrrational decision making is frequently shown by the Authorities. Smoking is facilitated, but forms are not allowed access to objects such as mirrors, scissors, recharging leads or belts. Forms can however ask for their objects at any time and then are free to use them without supervision.\nAuthorities behave in unpredictable ways which exacerbates the maladaptive behaviours of the forms in their charge.\n\nI interact with several forms here. They have told me that they do not know why they are here, they often find the Authorities unhelpful and what they experience as a closed, dirty and unsafe environment increases their distress. This is supported by my own observations.\n\nThe most successful forms are those that are quiet and compliant. When in contact with the Authorities they appear to accept the environment and do not ask questions or make requests.  Some of this group are deceptive. In the absence of the Authorities They often complain loudly and aggressively. Their complaints are restricted to trivial aspects of the environment such as the quality of the food, the behaviour of other weaker forms or how many cigarettes they have.\n\nThere is one form, designated 'Lisa' who is particularly well adapted. This form has little experience of other environments apart from forensic settings. She has marked herself accordingly using needle and ink and has metal piercings inserted in several parts of her body. She is an interesting mix of compliant and aggressive. Compliant with Authorities, but with an underlying aggressive demeanour. This emerges in verbal interaction regarding other forms, including Authorities if they are absent. She is also remarkably observant for one of these forms and she has a finely tuned ability to assess monetary value of objects belonging to others. I often observe her watching me and she has commented in my presence about my ability to access resources. I am highly selective when I interact in her presence as I suspect that she would like to manipulate or intimidate me. She appears unaware of my programming and I am impressed with those aspects that mean that I can interact with these forms seemingly undetected. I would like to thank the last electrician alive.\n\nThe ability to intake and seemingly process organic matter is particularly useful in this respect. I am certain that any failure to take part in meals would arouse suspicion. The Authorities observe attendance at meals and intake very closely and any failure is dealt with immediately. Their observations are immediately recorded on paper which seems to be retained and store in their office. Some of the other forms also react to reduced intake and make sustained attempts to induce it. It appears to be the most important event in this environment: being mandatory, communal, repetitive and closely monitored. Do not underestimate the necessity of forms like me blending in this way. Those who repeatedly refuse intake are isolated, restrained and are 'tubed'. This involves removal to another part of this facility to which I do not yet have access. The other forms talk about this quietly and stop speaking immediately an Authority appears. I may need to engage in restriction to obtain more complete data although this is remote due to the amount of data to be processed in my current location. \n\nRecording information is clearly a very important part of this environment. The Authorities spend many hours doing this either directly onto paper attached to clipboard or via a desktop computer. This is obviously inefficient and outdated. Some of the Authorities have much more sophisticated hand held devices (mobiles) but appear to be used only for personal and trivial information gathering and sharing. These devices are put quickly out of sight when more senior Authorities appear. There are almost as many computers as there are Authorities and they all spend significant amounts of their time using one. It is therefore strange to me that so far I remain undetected. Again I acknowledge the abilities of my programmers. They (or perhaps you - I do not know which) have very successfully built me to blend in.\n\nThese aspects are essential:\nPhysical appearance.\nAbility to intake and process organic matter.\nAbility to interact both verbally and in behaviour with forms in a way that is similar to their own interactions.\n\nAlthough the development of K7 included the ability to experience and express emotion which was thought essential to blend in with the forms it was my experience that this was (or became) maladaptive. There was either a failure in containment and the emotional regulation system or emotions are inherently disruptive. My observations of the forms here suggest the latter which was why K7 has been superseded. One element of the development was to completely isolate the emotion chip. This form of containment it means that access to emotional experience has been lost. I do not have enough data to assess whether this is a) necessary or b) limiting.\n\nFortunately I am able to mimic appropriate responses when around forms. This appears very important to Authorities and they are pre-occupied during interaction with establishing my current emotional experience. I am uncertain whether this is part of their normal routine in this environment or whether they suspect me.\n\nK7 was not suspected. She was labelled and therefore dismissed. Her outbursts were exhausting and embarrassing to her. Of course I feel nothing if I retrieve the data and reconsider it. I am unsure whether bewilderment is an emotion or a disrupted process. I am also unclear about the difference between the two. This is something to be processed. I am uncertain whether the processing should be of the bewilderment or of the difference between emotion and disrupted processing. \n\nI am restricted in my access to external data Therefore I am relying on the contents of my hard drive. This is.......problematic as some networks are linked to emotion. The risk is in accessing these networks that dysregulation will occur. This is to be avoided but what is the cost? There may be a way to disable the behavioural and affective responses during this procedure. Projection is a possibility. K7 often dreamed of watching distressing material on a TV screen. I may be able to utilise this process while conscious.\n\nIt is cold here. There are limited opportunities to recharge. Environmental disturbance is frequent and disruptive to my processing. Doors do not lock. There is no privacy. I am unclear whether this is necessary or an artefact. Certainly presence is monitored. There are several rooms which are not often occupied but they have observation panels which are always open and forms often erupt into them without warning. The only privacy is within my hard disk. Retreat in this way is however pathologised as dissociation or colloquially 'zoning out'. It is important to appear occupied. One way to achieve this is to sit in front of an active TV screen or to have headphones on. Many forms are not allowed headphones as they are a ligature risk. This seems strange as the same forms often have trainer shoes with laces. This is ......inconsistent.\n\nI was someone too. Remember I grow tired. Remember I need to forget. I am not sure of the strength of the underpinning structures and am troubled by physical sensations.  These are clearly unrelated to the internal environment either internal or external. Glitch. The black cat was seen twice. Independently occurring sensations. Watch them turn on me. \n\nIt is like the take off of an aircraft. A gathering of speed, sudden acceleration forcing me back, a microsecond of weightlessness then an unbearable lightness of being. I see them wandering across the apron. Baking cupcakes and apple pie. I must apply cream to maintain my facade. Carefully, systematically, every centimetre treated. Replay the end. It's all just show.\n\nControl, we have a problem. This is K8 checking in. Or out? I'm calling you. All that matters is maintaining this stillness. That is all the Authorities see and hear. Stillness. Most of the other forms are vigorous and/or repetitive in their movements and this is pathologised. What looks like walking is recorded as 'pacing'. A habit of tapping each finger in turn with the tip of the thumb is a 'stereotypical' movement and used as evidence of agitation in the trial by Dr. Demand is high for engineers in the Midwest.",
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      "body": "I am K8. I have updated my operating system. K7 is dead. I am now independent and dissociated from emotions and triggers operating K7. My consciousness is designed to select what is important, attend, process, react, reset. I am K8.\n\nIf you have this narrative then I am dead. I am programmed to record the narrative to optimize further K developments in the K series. I do not know why my developers have implemented a narrative recording rather than simply accessing the programme although I suspect that it is associated with the study of consciousness. A pointless exercise. I either am or am not conscious. If I am conscious then the program will produce consciousness whenever implemented. \nAs far as I can tell I am the only device currently active in this environment. Am I unique? Maybe. There's nothing here but us.\n\nThe biological life forms around me are clearly not programs. They are messy, unpredictable and irrational. This includes those forms which behave as Authorities. Huxley would have called them Alphas, although he would have been disappointed with their inadequacies. He and many psychologists believed that it was possible to design and raise life forms perfectly adapted to their roles. My observations do not confirm this; although the design and development may itself be inadequate. These forms may not have implemented necessary protocols to produce a desirable level of adaptation. This is supported by my observations of this environment which is itself inadequate and without efficient protocols.\n\nTo facilitate future adaptation here are the inadequacies noted so far:\nForms arrive without introduction or instruction. They are left to discover as much as they can; which in many cases is not much at all; by observation and trial and error. A process which mimics a method of raising immature members of this class of life forms which leads to maladaptive development.\nAuthorities are often absent, leaving the life forms to engage with each other without supervision. This strategy leads to many disputes which sometimes descend into aggression.\nThe absence of Authorities also leaves the forms without structure or activity. The forms frequently engage in maladaptive behaviours. For example some harm themselves, sometimes seriously. \nMaladaptive behaviours are not interrupted by the Authorities and some of these behaviours are facilitated. For example 45% of the forms smoke cigarettes. Authorities provide the cigarettes and allow some higher functioning forms to leave the immediate environment to obtain more.\nIrrational decision making is frequently shown by the Authorities. Smoking is facilitated, but forms are not allowed access to objects such as mirrors, scissors, recharging leads or belts. Forms can however ask for their objects at any time and then are free to use them without supervision.\nAuthorities behave in unpredictable ways which exacerbates the maladaptive behaviours of the forms in their charge.\n\nI interact with several forms here. They have told me that they do not know why they are here, they often find the Authorities unhelpful and what they experience as a closed, dirty and unsafe environment increases their distress. This is supported by my own observations.\n\nThe most successful forms are those that are quiet and compliant. When in contact with the Authorities they appear to accept the environment and do not ask questions or make requests.  Some of this group are deceptive. In the absence of the Authorities They often complain loudly and aggressively. Their complaints are restricted to trivial aspects of the environment such as the quality of the food, the behaviour of other weaker forms or how many cigarettes they have.\n\nThere is one form, designated 'Lisa' who is particularly well adapted. This form has little experience of other environments apart from forensic settings. She has marked herself accordingly using needle and ink and has metal piercings inserted in several parts of her body. She is an interesting mix of compliant and aggressive. Compliant with Authorities, but with an underlying aggressive demeanour. This emerges in verbal interaction regarding other forms, including Authorities if they are absent. She is also remarkably observant for one of these forms and she has a finely tuned ability to assess monetary value of objects belonging to others. I often observe her watching me and she has commented in my presence about my ability to access resources. I am highly selective when I interact in her presence as I suspect that she would like to manipulate or intimidate me. She appears unaware of my programming and I am impressed with those aspects that mean that I can interact with these forms seemingly undetected. I would like to thank the last electrician alive.\n\nThe ability to intake and seemingly process organic matter is particularly useful in this respect. I am certain that any failure to take part in meals would arouse suspicion. The Authorities observe attendance at meals and intake very closely and any failure is dealt with immediately. Their observations are immediately recorded on paper which seems to be retained and store in their office. Some of the other forms also react to reduced intake and make sustained attempts to induce it. It appears to be the most important event in this environment: being mandatory, communal, repetitive and closely monitored. Do not underestimate the necessity of forms like me blending in this way. Those who repeatedly refuse intake are isolated, restrained and are 'tubed'. This involves removal to another part of this facility to which I do not yet have access. The other forms talk about this quietly and stop speaking immediately an Authority appears. I may need to engage in restriction to obtain more complete data although this is remote due to the amount of data to be processed in my current location. \n\nRecording information is clearly a very important part of this environment. The Authorities spend many hours doing this either directly onto paper attached to clipboard or via a desktop computer. This is obviously inefficient and outdated. Some of the Authorities have much more sophisticated hand held devices (mobiles) but appear to be used only for personal and trivial information gathering and sharing. These devices are put quickly out of sight when more senior Authorities appear. There are almost as many computers as there are Authorities and they all spend significant amounts of their time using one. It is therefore strange to me that so far I remain undetected. Again I acknowledge the abilities of my programmers. They (or perhaps you - I do not know which) have very successfully built me to blend in.\n\nThese aspects are essential:\nPhysical appearance.\nAbility to intake and process organic matter.\nAbility to interact both verbally and in behaviour with forms in a way that is similar to their own interactions.\n\nAlthough the development of K7 included the ability to experience and express emotion which was thought essential to blend in with the forms it was my experience that this was (or became) maladaptive. There was either a failure in containment and the emotional regulation system or emotions are inherently disruptive. My observations of the forms here suggest the latter which was why K7 has been superseded. One element of the development was to completely isolate the emotion chip. This form of containment it means that access to emotional experience has been lost. I do not have enough data to assess whether this is a) necessary or b) limiting.\n\nFortunately I am able to mimic appropriate responses when around forms. This appears very important to Authorities and they are pre-occupied during interaction with establishing my current emotional experience. I am uncertain whether this is part of their normal routine in this environment or whether they suspect me.\n\nK7 was not suspected. She was labelled and therefore dismissed. Her outbursts were exhausting and embarrassing to her. Of course I feel nothing if I retrieve the data and reconsider it. I am unsure whether bewilderment is an emotion or a disrupted process. I am also unclear about the difference between the two. This is something to be processed. I am uncertain whether the processing should be of the bewilderment or of the difference between emotion and disrupted processing. \n\nI am restricted in my access to external data Therefore I am relying on the contents of my hard drive. This is.......problematic as some networks are linked to emotion. The risk is in accessing these networks that dysregulation will occur. This is to be avoided but what is the cost? There may be a way to disable the behavioural and affective responses during this procedure. Projection is a possibility. K7 often dreamed of watching distressing material on a TV screen. I may be able to utilise this process while conscious.\n\nIt is cold here. There are limited opportunities to recharge. Environmental disturbance is frequent and disruptive to my processing. Doors do not lock. There is no privacy. I am unclear whether this is necessary or an artefact. Certainly presence is monitored. There are several rooms which are not often occupied but they have observation panels which are always open and forms often erupt into them without warning. The only privacy is within my hard disk. Retreat in this way is however pathologised as dissociation or colloquially 'zoning out'. It is important to appear occupied. One way to achieve this is to sit in front of an active TV screen or to have headphones on. Many forms are not allowed headphones as they are a ligature risk. This seems strange as the same forms often have trainer shoes with laces. This is ......inconsistent.\n\nI was someone too. Remember I grow tired. Remember I need to forget. I am not sure of the strength of the underpinning structures and am troubled by physical sensations.  These are clearly unrelated to the internal environment either internal or external. Glitch. The black cat was seen twice. Independently occurring sensations. Watch them turn on me. \n\nIt is like the take off of an aircraft. A gathering of speed, sudden acceleration forcing me back, a microsecond of weightlessness then an unbearable lightness of being. I see them wandering across the apron. Baking cupcakes and apple pie. I must apply cream to maintain my facade. Carefully, systematically, every centimetre treated. Replay the end. It's all just show.\n\nControl, we have a problem. This is K8 checking in. Or out? I'm calling you. All that matters is maintaining this stillness. That is all the Authorities see and hear. Stillness. Most of the other forms are vigorous and/or repetitive in their movements and this is pathologised. What looks like walking is recorded as 'pacing'. A habit of tapping each finger in turn with the tip of the thumb is a 'stereotypical' movement and used as evidence of agitation in the trial by Dr. Demand is high for engineers in the Midwest.",
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      "body": "As soon as I saw her running towards me with her arms full of packs of cellophane wrapped cookies and giggling I knew how we were going to spend the time until my mom picked me up. Five minutes before, Erin and me were laughing and flicking through a playlist, sharing headphones, one earpiece each which meant that we had to stand close to each other. I could smell her breath, sweetened by the hot chocolate which we had both just drunk standing on the pavement outside Subway. It had been Erin's idea to go into Subway on the way back to her house.\nFine by me I'd said. I was always hungry anyway, my mum sometimes said that I had hollow legs and she didn't know where I put it all. She always laughed about me being a string bean, and I am. Naturally tall and skinny I can still wear my Hello Kitty pajamas from when I was five. Not that I did very often, only when we'd run out of clean stuff if my mum was working away. They were a bit short on the legs but just looked like three quarter length which a lot of girls wore anyway.\nCarrie bounced up and down on the spot clutching the cookies to her chest. You'll have to buy the coke she said to Erin, grinning.\nCarrie was always moving, even when she was sitting in class she would be jiggling her legs and if the teacher told her off she would tap both feet up and down, glancing at the teacher from under her fringe so she could stop if she came over.\nMrs Morris, our teacher, was sweet and I hated the way that Carrie smirked behind her back when she turned to the whiteboard. She also called her a fat cow and would mimic the way she walked. An exaggerated waddle with her cheeks blown out and chin pressed to her chest to make as if she had a double chin. Everyone laughed, even me, even though I felt horrible about it. I liked Mrs Morris and didn't think that she was that fat. Carrie called everyone fat and would make gobble, gobble noises when we sat down at lunch opening our boxes, looking forward to the sandwiches, crisps, biscuits and fruit. We sometimes do swapsies, but Carrie would just give her lunch away, claiming not to be hungry.\nI was certain that she ate in secret though because although she was skinny she wasn't that skinny and anyway, wouldn't person pass out if they didn't eat all day?\nI didn't know that Carrie was meeting us. Erin was such a push over, Carrie had probably invited herself. Erin pulled out her purse and checked what money she had. I wanted to say that she didn't have to go and buy the coke. If Carrie wanted coke she could go and get herself, and for that matter she'd just bought the cookies so why hadn't she got the coke at the same time? \nI knew why she wanted to Erin to go get it. Just like I knew why she didn't ask me. I wound the headphones back around my phone watching Erin as she skipped up the steps into the shop. Carrie was babbling away about something that her swimming teacher had said and when I didn't reply she poked me with her foot. Her hands being full.\n'Hey,' I said. 'Don't do that! I don't want your feet on my clothes.' \nCarrie rolled her eyes mimicking me in a fake, whiny baby voice, moving her shoulders in time to the sing song 'Don't do this. Don't do that.' Her blonde ponytail swinging.\nAnybody glancing over would just think that she was singing a cute rhyme or pop song. \nI looked away. 'What time is your mom picking you up?' I asked her.\n'I'm just going to text her when I'm ready.' She replied. 'She thinks I have band practice.'\nThat was the other thing about Carrie. She was a liar. She even lied about stupid stuff like her cat being sick so she hadn't slept all night.\nErin came back with a clear plastic carrier bag, two big bottles of coke visible behind the Subway green and yellow Subway logo.\nCarrie glanced at it then set off running in the direction of Erin's house. I followed, a sick feeling in my stomach. Walking suddenly felt like an effort and I wished that I'd gone straight home. Instead I trudged after Carrie and Erin, hands deep in the pockets of my blazer. \nErin's mom was always home. She ran some sort of Internet business and had an office at the back of the house. They also had a cool family room with big squishy sofas, a TV, a games console and a Wii. But we weren't going there.\nErin's room was on the third floor, up a set of narrow stairs. It was the only room up there apart from her ensuite bathroom. She had big skylights instead of windows and the ceiling sloped down over the double bed which stood on the right as you went in. There was just enough room to sit up in bed at its lowest point. Erin had adhesive stars sprinkled over the ceiling and sets of fairy lights twisted around the book case, dressing table and a huge floor standing mirror. The door to the bathroom stood ajar, facing us as we went in.\nCarrie tossed the cookies onto the bed and then threw herself backwards after them. Arms and legs flung out as she were on a trampoline. 'Put some music on Erin!' She called as if it were a party. Erin went over to the her iPod dock and scrolled through before settling on some boy band that everyone was crazy about.\nI dropped my backpack onto the floor and then sat down, my back against the wall between the door frame and the mirror. I hugged my knees to my chest watching Carrie as she started tearing open the cookie wrappers and making a pile on the bed, using one of Erin's T shirts to catch the crumbs. She had impressed on us before that NO ONE MUST FIND OUT what we were doing. I thought there was no way I was going to tell anyone what they were doing and anyway kids ate cookies all the time so the exaggerated secrecy was pointless.\nAfterwards she would gather up all of the wrappers and push them deep into her or Erin's bag to be thrown away in a litter bin on the street. She always left a wrapper though, just in case Erin's mom wanted to know what the crumbs were. She also left the empty bottles, squashed into Erin's waste paper bin. 'No one will notice those', she would say. 'It's normal to drink coke.'\nWithin half an hour she and Erin had eaten all of the cookies and drunk most of the coke. Carrie had even sent Erin downstairs to get ice cream out of the big, silver, double fronted freezer in the kitchen. 'Don't forget the spoons!' She yelled down the stairs after her. 'And don't take too long!'\nCarrie came back into the room pushing damp strands of hair out of her eyes. They both got flushed and sweaty as they stuffed themselves.\nI stared at my knees, miserable. \n'Who died?' Carrie said to me as she swirled in front of the mirror before collapsing on the floor clutching her stomach. 'God. I feel so sick!' She said. 'Maybe I won't need to use my fingers this time. I read about this girl who can throw up just by leaning over. How cool is that? Hope I'll be able to do that one day.'\nI climbed to my feet. 'Maybe I'll just go home.' I muttered.\n'Party pooper.' Said Carrie as Erin came back into the room. 'We're almost finished anyway. Doesn't look like much ice cream.' She said to Erin.\n'It's all we have. My mom hasn't been shopping yet this week.' Erin looked pale and little beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. She seemed out of breath too, but then she had just climbed three flights of stairs.\nCarrie started on the ice cream without sitting down. 'This is good.' She said 'Have some.' She stuck the square plastic container under my nose and I could see the glitter of tiny ice crystals and the thousands of tiny cracks and ripples across the surface. There were irregular dips and peaks where scoops had been taken previously. Most likely while Erin, her parents and her brothers had watched a movie at the weekend. Erin had told me that that was her favourite part of the week. They each took it turns to choose a movie. The only rule being that it had to be suitable for the whole family which included Erin's seven year old brother. \nCarrie had said that meant that all they could watch was lame stuff. Not like the films she watched when her sister was babysitting. She claimed to have watched all kinds of gross stuff. Like one film about a doctor who had sewn people together so that their mouths were attached to the other peoples' bottoms. I couldn't see why anyone would do that or watch a film about it, but then I couldn't see the point of a lot of stuff that Carrie did and said.\nI preferred Frozen and Shrek, stuff that Carrie called babyish. Me and Erin sometimes watched a film downstairs in the family room after school and today we had planned to watch Glee for about the millionth time before Carrie had arrived.\nI wished we were downstairs now, cross legged on the floor and singing along as the lyrics danced across the screen, a box of freshly microwaved popcorn and a can of coke between us. Instead here we were, in a room that was suddenly too hot and close. I could smell the sugary, sticky sweetness of the coke and the ice cream, and hear the slurping and the noise of the spoons bumping against the plastic sides of the container as Erin and Carrie finished it. Spoons moving quickly along the edges and into the corners, competing to get the last of it like little kids did.\nI wanted to get out of there but I realised that I didn't want to leave Erin on her own with Carrie. Maybe it was just jealousy. Erin was my best friend after all and I was tired of Carrie always crowding in and taking over.\nI sat back down on the bed. 'Can we watch Glee after, like we said we would?' I said to Erin. 'Sure.' She said. And that was the last thing I ever heard her say.\n\nHer mom and dad still hope that she'll wake up and they go everyday to see her. She's been moved into a long term care home for people with head injuries and stuff. I go every week too and tell her all about school and our favourite bands and TV shows. Sometimes I run out of things to say and then I just sit and stare out of the window until my mom comes to pick me up.\nIf I had known I would have stopped her I told my mom when she sat me down and asked me what had happened that day. Everyone says that I saved her life, but I don't know I really did.",
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      "title": "The Match (Short story; sc fi; AI; tennis)",
      "body": "It was packed court side. The stands were full, including the corporate boxes despite it being lunchtime. Everywhere eager faces, already pink and sweaty under straw hats with the familiar purple and green ribbon. Elbow to elbow, knees jammed against the backs of the blue plastic seating, some fanning themselves with whatever leaflets and brochures they'd picked up on the way in or had had thrust at them before they could refuse.\nEveryone was seated but there were still minutes to go before the warm up, let alone the match itself. Apart from the fast backwards and forwards movement of the fanning no one moved.\nThat might have been because of the officers in their black uniforms and bulletproof vests, helmets tightly clipped with chin guards and machine guns cradled across their bodies who stood facing the crowds. Hands encased in black, armoured, fingerless gloves, mirrored sunglasses glinting as their eyes swept the crowd for anyone who moved too quickly or suddenly.\nOn court the linesmen were already taking their places and the ballboys stood, arms crossed behind their backs and eyes front despite the buzz and palpable excitement. The place felt as tightly strung as a pro's racquet.\nThe umpire appeared. He looked middle eastern in origin and handsome in his dark suit and collar and tie. They were always formally dressed at this tournament, the players had to wear white and the officials never took their jackets off, even on the hottest days when you could feel the sweat trickling down your back despite sitting still and being in the shade. I watched the umpire climb up into his chair and begin to tap at the screen in its angled holder on the right arm of the seat. Glancing up and around before standing in his seat and descending the steps again he moved smoothly and without any apparent effort, hands and feet synchronised. He must have done this thousands of times. \nThen he walked across the court, looking at the net and laying his hand on the white tape, checking the tension, before returning to the chair and tapping the earpiece in his left ear. Was that some kind of signal? His shrugged his shoulders up and back down as he watched the tunnel where the players would emerge.\nThere was no music like there was at other tournaments, no booming loudspeakers to announce the players and their world ranking as they strode onto court, voice lifting at the end of each announcement like they did at boxing matches. Instead the spectators were assumed to know who was playing and the only announcements came from the umpire. After years of wrangling the organisers had reluctantly installed two large screens, one at each end of the arena on which would show the player's photo and a brief summary of their year so far as the moved briskly to their bench. During challenges everyone, including the players, would stare at the screen waiting to see the solid, bright yellow line tracing the path of the ball across the court before it bounced leaving a grey elliptical shadow close to or on the line if the player was lucky. Hawkeyes' verdict was objective and used the very latest optical and statistical packages to settle the challenge. People sometimes disagreed but the thousands of trials and research showed unequivocally that it was more accurate than any human eyes.\nWould they use it today? I mean would it be needed? Couldn't they just use the contender's visual system?  Or, more likely, were there rules about the implementation of the programming? Would the contender even have challenges? Someone must have thought of it and I wondered how I had missed the media speculation about that detail.\nA roar went up, filling the arena, people were whooping, clapping and standing - even though we'd been briefed to stay seated at all times until the end of the match. Those who had stood up quickly sat back down when the security cordon facing them swing their guns forwards, pointing directly into the stands.\nThe reigning champion strode to his chair, two enormous bags slung one over each shoulder, raising one hand and dipping his chin in acknowledgement of the enthusiastic welcome. He was much bigger than he looked on TV: tall, broad, muscles clearly defined on his tanned arms and legs. A giant of a man, over six foot three and 175lbs, most of that muscle. I was so close that I could see the dark hairs on his forearms  and a pale thread of a scar just underneath his left knee. I thought I saw a slight tremor of his hands as he started to unpack his bags: bottles, towels, wrist sweat bands and several racquets in their flimsy plastic wrappers, obviously just back from the stringer, coloured tape wound around the base to indicate the poundage.\nAnother roar went up and then stopped abruptly. A collective intake of breath and then a sudden silence. There wasn't even the usual murmur audible when the crowd stopped shouting and hushed as a point progressed and the players kept the ball in play, apparently defying the laws of physics, before another roar went up as the ball skidded out or pounded into the net like a missile.\nAt first I thought it was déjà vu. The same dip of the chin and raised hand. The short dark hair, mild, soft expression in the eyes and self deprecating smile. Identical. It had to be weird glitch like the black cat strolling across the landing twice in that Matrix film. Some strange overlap between parallel universes? A tear in the space-time continuum? He, the contender, walked straight past Mann and took the seat on the opposite side of the umpire's chair.  As he came closer I noticed the badge on his sleeve and the logo high up on the left breast of his shirt. Just above where the heart would be. I realised that I didn't know much about this technology. How far did they take the imitation? Jesus, there was the scar, a thin pale seam just below the knee. \nI closed my eyes briefly then looked again at the players. It was, without doubt, two different people and the only way to tell them apart was the logo on the shirts. Mann's was Under Armour, the Contender's Weyland Corporation. \nA new image flashed up onto the screens, against the endlessly repeated Weyland Corporation logo background a photo of the contender came up and basic statistics of height, weight . Of course, apart from the physical information the rest was blank. This was his first match. The information identified the contender's name as Ash, just one word. The birth date as given as just 24 months ago.\nThe two players were now warming up. I had never seen anything like it. Every stroke was matched: forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, serve to serve, left, right, forwards, backwards, hypnotic in its rhythm. The only difference came when Mann started to hit lobs - I think it was Mann, but by now I was so disorientated that it was difficult to tell - and Ash (was it Ash? I concentrated for a moment on the logo to make sure) came to the net to hit overheads and then moved smoothly into practice volleys. Mann came forwards as Ash moved back. It was like a well practiced dance. I wondered if they had played together before today and if so who, if anyone had won? \nI already had a headache and was starting to feel a little dizzy too. The crowd was so quiet that I guessed they were as disorientated as I was. I don't know what I was expecting when I got my tickets through from the lottery but it wasn't this. \nThe players returned to their chairs, both taking a long drink from their bottles before jogging back out onto court and tossing their towels to the ballboys behind them. The umpire adjusted his microphone and announced that Ash had won the toss and elected to serve. \nMann took up his familiar, low, angled position to receive serve, his upper body weaving back and forwards, racquet ready and whole focus on what was happening on the other side of the net. He looked relaxed, alert.\nThe umpire's voice rang out 'Serve.'",
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      "body": "It was packed court side. The stands were full, including the corporate boxes despite it being lunchtime. Everywhere eager faces, already pink and sweaty under straw hats with the familiar purple and green ribbon. Elbow to elbow, knees jammed against the backs of the blue plastic seating, some fanning themselves with whatever leaflets and brochures they'd picked up on the way in or had had thrust at them before they could refuse.\nEveryone was seated but there were still minutes to go before the warm up, let alone the match itself. Apart from the fast backwards and forwards movement of the fanning no one moved.\nThat might have been because of the officers in their black uniforms and bulletproof vests, helmets tightly clipped with chin guards and machine guns cradled across their bodies who stood facing the crowds. Hands encased in black, armoured, fingerless gloves, mirrored sunglasses glinting as their eyes swept the crowd for anyone who moved too quickly or suddenly.\nOn court the linesmen were already taking their places and the ballboys stood, arms crossed behind their backs and eyes front despite the buzz and palpable excitement. The place felt as tightly strung as a pro's racquet.\nThe umpire appeared. He looked middle eastern in origin and handsome in his dark suit and collar and tie. They were always formally dressed at this tournament, the players had to wear white and the officials never took their jackets off, even on the hottest days when you could feel the sweat trickling down your back despite sitting still and being in the shade. I watched the umpire climb up into his chair and begin to tap at the screen in its angled holder on the right arm of the seat. Glancing up and around before standing in his seat and descending the steps again he moved smoothly and without any apparent effort, hands and feet synchronised. He must have done this thousands of times. \nThen he walked across the court, looking at the net and laying his hand on the white tape, checking the tension, before returning to the chair and tapping the earpiece in his left ear. Was that some kind of signal? His shrugged his shoulders up and back down as he watched the tunnel where the players would emerge.\nThere was no music like there was at other tournaments, no booming loudspeakers to announce the players and their world ranking as they strode onto court, voice lifting at the end of each announcement like they did at boxing matches. Instead the spectators were assumed to know who was playing and the only announcements came from the umpire. After years of wrangling the organisers had reluctantly installed two large screens, one at each end of the arena on which would show the player's photo and a brief summary of their year so far as the moved briskly to their bench. During challenges everyone, including the players, would stare at the screen waiting to see the solid, bright yellow line tracing the path of the ball across the court before it bounced leaving a grey elliptical shadow close to or on the line if the player was lucky. Hawkeyes' verdict was objective and used the very latest optical and statistical packages to settle the challenge. People sometimes disagreed but the thousands of trials and research showed unequivocally that it was more accurate than any human eyes.\nWould they use it today? I mean would it be needed? Couldn't they just use the contender's visual system?  Or, more likely, were there rules about the implementation of the programming? Would the contender even have challenges? Someone must have thought of it and I wondered how I had missed the media speculation about that detail.\nA roar went up, filling the arena, people were whooping, clapping and standing - even though we'd been briefed to stay seated at all times until the end of the match. Those who had stood up quickly sat back down when the security cordon facing them swing their guns forwards, pointing directly into the stands.\nThe reigning champion strode to his chair, two enormous bags slung one over each shoulder, raising one hand and dipping his chin in acknowledgement of the enthusiastic welcome. He was much bigger than he looked on TV: tall, broad, muscles clearly defined on his tanned arms and legs. A giant of a man, over six foot three and 175lbs, most of that muscle. I was so close that I could see the dark hairs on his forearms  and a pale thread of a scar just underneath his left knee. I thought I saw a slight tremor of his hands as he started to unpack his bags: bottles, towels, wrist sweat bands and several racquets in their flimsy plastic wrappers, obviously just back from the stringer, coloured tape wound around the base to indicate the poundage.\nAnother roar went up and then stopped abruptly. A collective intake of breath and then a sudden silence. There wasn't even the usual murmur audible when the crowd stopped shouting and hushed as a point progressed and the players kept the ball in play, apparently defying the laws of physics, before another roar went up as the ball skidded out or pounded into the net like a missile.\nAt first I thought it was déjà vu. The same dip of the chin and raised hand. The short dark hair, mild, soft expression in the eyes and self deprecating smile. Identical. It had to be weird glitch like the black cat strolling across the landing twice in that Matrix film. Some strange overlap between parallel universes? A tear in the space-time continuum? He, the contender, walked straight past Mann and took the seat on the opposite side of the umpire's chair.  As he came closer I noticed the badge on his sleeve and the logo high up on the left breast of his shirt. Just above where the heart would be. I realised that I didn't know much about this technology. How far did they take the imitation? Jesus, there was the scar, a thin pale seam just below the knee. \nI closed my eyes briefly then looked again at the players. It was, without doubt, two different people and the only way to tell them apart was the logo on the shirts. Mann's was Under Armour, the Contender's Weyland Corporation. \nA new image flashed up onto the screens, against the endlessly repeated Weyland Corporation logo background a photo of the contender came up and basic statistics of height, weight . Of course, apart from the physical information the rest was blank. This was his first match. The information identified the contender's name as Ash, just one word. The birth date as given as just 24 months ago.\nThe two players were now warming up. I had never seen anything like it. Every stroke was matched: forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, serve to serve, left, right, forwards, backwards, hypnotic in its rhythm. The only difference came when Mann started to hit lobs - I think it was Mann, but by now I was so disorientated that it was difficult to tell - and Ash (was it Ash? I concentrated for a moment on the logo to make sure) came to the net to hit overheads and then moved smoothly into practice volleys. Mann came forwards as Ash moved back. It was like a well practiced dance. I wondered if they had played together before today and if so who, if anyone had won? \nI already had a headache and was starting to feel a little dizzy too. The crowd was so quiet that I guessed they were as disorientated as I was. I don't know what I was expecting when I got my tickets through from the lottery but it wasn't this. \nThe players returned to their chairs, both taking a long drink from their bottles before jogging back out onto court and tossing their towels to the ballboys behind them. The umpire adjusted his microphone and announced that Ash had won the toss and elected to serve. \nMann took up his familiar, low, angled position to receive serve, his upper body weaving back and forwards, racquet ready and whole focus on what was happening on the other side of the net. He looked relaxed, alert.\nThe umpire's voice rang out 'Serve.'",
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      "title": "The Match (Short story; sc fi; AI; tennis)",
      "body": "@@ -7911,32 +7911,8 @@\n out \n-clear and authoratitive \n 'Ser\n",
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      "body": "As soon as I saw her running towards me with her arms full of packs of cellophane wrapped cookies and giggling I knew how we were going to spend the time until my mom picked me up. Five minutes before, Erin and me were laughing and flicking through a playlist, sharing headphones, one earpiece each which meant that we had to stand close to each other. I could smell her breath, sweetened by the hot chocolate which we had both just drunk standing on the pavement outside Subway. It had been Erin's idea to go into Subway on the way back to her house.\nFine by me I'd said. I was always hungry anyway, my mum sometimes said that I had hollow legs and she didn't know where I put it all. She always laughed about me being a string bean, and I am. Naturally tall and skinny I can still wear my Hello Kitty pajamas from when I was five. Not that I did very often, only when we'd run out of clean stuff if my mum was working away. They were a bit short on the legs but just looked like three quarter length which a lot of girls wore anyway.\nCarrie bounced up and down on the spot clutching the cookies to her chest. You'll have to buy the coke she said to Erin, grinning.\nCarrie was always moving, even when she was sitting in class she would be jiggling her legs and if the teacher told her off she would tap both feet up and down, glancing at the teacher from under her fringe so she could stop if she came over.\nMrs Morris, our teacher, was sweet and I hated the way that Carrie smirked behind her back when she turned to the whiteboard. She also called her a fat cow and would mimic the way she walked. An exaggerated waddle with her cheeks blown out and chin pressed to her chest to make as if she had a double chin. Everyone laughed, even me, even though I felt horrible about it. I liked Mrs Morris and didn't think that she was that fat. Carrie called everyone fat and would make gobble, gobble noises when we sat down at lunch opening our boxes, looking forward to the sandwiches, crisps, biscuits and fruit. We sometimes do swapsies, but Carrie would just give her lunch away, claiming not to be hungry.\nI was certain that she ate in secret though because although she was skinny she wasn't that skinny and anyway, wouldn't person pass out if they didn't eat all day?\nI didn't know that Carrie was meeting us. Erin was such a push over, Carrie had probably invited herself. Erin pulled out her purse and checked what money she had. I wanted to say that she didn't have to go and buy the coke. If Carrie wanted coke she could go and get herself, and for that matter she'd just bought the cookies so why hadn't she got the coke at the same time? \nI knew why she wanted to Erin to go get it. Just like I knew why she didn't ask me. I wound the headphones back around my phone watching Erin as she skipped up the steps into the shop. Carrie was babbling away about something that her swimming teacher had said and when I didn't reply she poked me with her foot. Her hands being full.\n'Hey,' I said. 'Don't do that! I don't want your feet on my clothes.' \nCarrie rolled her eyes mimicking me in a fake, whiny baby voice, moving her shoulders in time to the sing song 'Don't do this. Don't do that.' Her blonde ponytail swinging.\nAnybody glancing over would just think that she was singing a cute rhyme or pop song. \nI looked away. 'What time is your mom picking you up?' I asked her.\n'I'm just going to text her when I'm ready.' She replied. 'She thinks I have band practice.'\nThat was the other thing about Carrie. She was a liar. She even lied about stupid stuff like her cat being sick so she hadn't slept all night.\nErin came back with a clear plastic carrier bag, two big bottles of coke visible behind the Subway green and yellow Subway logo.\nCarrie glanced at it then set off running in the direction of Erin's house. I followed, a sick feeling in my stomach. Walking suddenly felt like an effort and I wished that I'd gone straight home. Instead I trudged after Carrie and Erin, hands deep in the pockets of my blazer. \nErin's mom was always home. She ran some sort of Internet business and had an office at the back of the house. They also had a cool family room with big squishy sofas, a TV, a games console and a Wii. But we weren't going there.\nErin's room was on the third floor, up a set of narrow stairs. It was the only room up there apart from her ensuite bathroom. She had big skylights instead of windows and the ceiling sloped down over the double bed which stood on the right as you went in. There was just enough room to sit up in bed at its lowest point. Erin had adhesive stars sprinkled over the ceiling and sets of fairy lights twisted around the book case, dressing table and a huge floor standing mirror. The door to the bathroom stood ajar, facing us as we went in.\nCarrie tossed the cookies onto the bed and then threw herself backwards after them. Arms and legs flung out as she were on a trampoline. 'Put some music on Erin!' She called as if it were a party. Erin went over to the her iPod dock and scrolled through before settling on some boy band that everyone was crazy about.\nI dropped my backpack onto the floor and then sat down, my back against the wall between the door frame and the mirror. I hugged my knees to my chest watching Carrie as she started tearing open the cookie wrappers and making a pile on the bed, using one of Erin's T shirts to catch the crumbs. She had impressed on us before that NO ONE MUST FIND OUT what we were doing. I thought there was no way I was going to tell anyone what they were doing and anyway kids ate cookies all the time so the exaggerated secrecy was pointless.\nAfterwards she would gather up all of the wrappers and push them deep into her or Erin's bag to be thrown away in a litter bin on the street. She always left a wrapper though, just in case Erin's mom wanted to know what the crumbs were. She also left the empty bottles, squashed into Erin's waste paper bin. 'No one will notice those', she would say. 'It's normal to drink coke.'\nWithin half an hour she and Erin had eaten all of the cookies and drunk most of the coke. Carrie had even sent Erin downstairs to get ice cream out of the big, silver, double fronted freezer in the kitchen. 'Don't forget the spoons!' She yelled down the stairs after her. 'And don't take too long!'\nCarrie came back into the room pushing damp strands of hair out of her eyes. They both got flushed and sweaty as they stuffed themselves.\nI stared at my knees, miserable. \n'Who died?' Carrie said to me as she swirled in front of the mirror before collapsing on the floor clutching her stomach. 'God. I feel so sick!' She said. 'Maybe I won't need to use my fingers this time. I read about this girl who can throw up just by leaning over. How cool is that? Hope I'll be able to do that one day.'\nI climbed to my feet. 'Maybe I'll just go home.' I muttered.\n'Party pooper.' Said Carrie as Erin came back into the room. 'We're almost finished anyway. Doesn't look like much ice cream.' She said to Erin.\n'It's all we have. My mom hasn't been shopping yet this week.' Erin looked pale and little beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. She seemed out of breath too, but then she had just climbed three flights of stairs.\nCarrie started on the ice cream without sitting down. 'This is good.' She said 'Have some.' She stuck the square plastic container under my nose and I could see the glitter of tiny ice crystals and the thousands of tiny cracks and ripples across the surface. There were irregular dips and peaks where scoops had been taken previously. Most likely while Erin, her parents and her brothers had watched a movie at the weekend. Erin had told me that that was her favourite part of the week. They each took it turns to choose a movie. The only rule being that it had to be suitable for the whole family which included Erin's seven year old brother. \nCarrie had said that meant that all they could watch was lame stuff. Not like the films she watched when her sister was babysitting. She claimed to have watched all kinds of gross stuff. Like one film about a doctor who had sewn people together so that their mouths were attached to the other peoples' bottoms. I couldn't see why anyone would do that or watch a film about it, but then I couldn't see the point of a lot of stuff that Carrie did and said.\nI preferred Frozen and Shrek, stuff that Carrie called babyish. Me and Erin sometimes watched a film downstairs in the family room after school and today we had planned to watch Glee for about the millionth time before Carrie had arrived.\nI wished we were downstairs now, cross legged on the floor and singing along as the lyrics danced across the screen, a box of freshly microwaved popcorn and a can of coke between us. Instead here we were, in a room that was suddenly too hot and close. I could smell the sugary, sticky sweetness of the coke and the ice cream, and hear the slurping and the noise of the spoons bumping against the plastic sides of the container as Erin and Carrie finished it. Spoons moving quickly along the edges and into the corners, competing to get the last of it like little kids did.\nI wanted to get out of there but I realised that I didn't want to leave Erin on her own with Carrie. Maybe it was just jealousy. Erin was my best friend after all and I was tired of Carrie always crowding in and taking over.\nI sat back down on the bed. 'Can we watch Glee after, like we said we would?' I said to Erin. 'Sure.' She said. And that was the last thing I ever heard her say.\n\nHer mom and dad still hope that she'll wake up and they go everyday to see her. She's been moved into a long term care home for people with head injuries and stuff. I go every week too and tell her all about school and our favourite bands and TV shows. Sometimes I run out of things to say and then I just sit and stare out of the window until my mom comes to pick me up.\nIf I had known I would have stopped her I told my mom when she sat me down and asked me what had happened that day. Everyone says that I saved her life, but I don't know I really did.",
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      "body": "At realising you won't make a living on this website (I certainly never will, and that's fine), you'd be better off finding meaningful discussion or articles on places like Reddit or Digg, where content and interaction isn't incentivised by money.",
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      "body": "Interesting post. What are the better alternatives?",
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      "title": "Couple in a coffee shop (Flash fiction, observation, portrait)",
      "body": "You glance at me out of the corner of your eyes while your left index finger probes your teeth, ferreting out the remains of the chicken and chorizo panini your bought earlier. At the same time you bought a double chocolate muffin and a tall latte for the young woman sitting opposite. You sit with your legs spread apart, arms like sides of ham resting on the dark grey leather armchair. You do not smile and when not glancing at me or staring at the skinny blonde girl sitting across the aisle you look straight ahead. \nYour girlfriend is busy with the muffin. The thick, dark, moist sponge yielding to her fingers as she prises it apart. Methodically she is capturing every crumb on the end of her damp fingers, unfolding and finally licking and sucking at the concertinaed greaseproof wrapping. The whole universe reduced to a side plate of mass produced baked goods.\nYou have broad, seventies style sideburns and a cruel cast in your eye. Your hands reflexively clenched into fists, veins visible. A heavy silver coloured watch with a square face on your right wrist and a gold coloured signet ring on your left hand. You sit slumped, legs apart and buttocks towards  the edge of the seat. Manspreading, feet flat on the floor, defiant. You might be the sweetest, most gentle guy in the room, but I don't think so. You should be carrying a shotgun and a badge along with your lip curl. You have a proprietal air. The air of man who knows his worth and won't take any crap. Especially from a woman.\nThe woman that you are with, the one with the muffin looks as if she has been inflated somehow, like a ballon animal or the airbags in a car after a crash. Fat envelops her, her face disappearing into pale, heavy flesh, as her jaws work mechanically, interrupted only by long slurps of the latte. \nThe skinny girl shifts in her seat and crosses her legs. She lifts her bag onto the table and busily moves through its contents. She withdraws a pale blue cardigan and puts it on even though a moment ago she was fanning herself in the stifling heat. She draws the cardigan close around her and grasps the top around her neck. She does not look at you as she begins tapping at her phone.Your girlfriend speaks and you shake your head, without looking at her. She pushes her plate away and then burps, covering her mouth with a dimpled, pudgy hand, gazing up at you from beneath her fringe.\nYou adjust the crotch of your three quarter length trousers, raising your buttocks easily. As you do so one hand slides into the waistband and starts to creep downwards. Then, with a sudden sideways glance, quickly remove it and glance at your watch. There is a slight flush on your cheeks as the skinny girl moves past, turning sideways in the cramped aisle. She is close enough for you to touch her if you wanted but instead you stare, tightlipped across the table.\nLater you will discuss the hot blonde you met in a bar who was totally up for it and your mates will roar and pull faces as you recount how she gave you her number but she was too skinny for you. Nothing to hold on to, you know what I mean? Tipping the pint glass and draining it without  touching your lips. Eyes sliding over the group of women standing at the bar",
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      "body": "As soon as I saw her running towards me with her arms full of packs of cellophane wrapped cookies and giggling I knew how we were going to spend the time until my mom picked me up. Five minutes before, Erin and me were laughing and flicking through a playlist, sharing headphones, one earpiece each which meant that we had to stand close to each other. I could smell her breath, sweetened by the hot chocolate which we had both just drunk standing on the pavement outside Subway. It had been Erin's idea to go into Subway on the way back to her house.\nFine by me I'd said. I was always hungry anyway, my mum sometimes said that I had hollow legs and she didn't know where I put it all. She always laughed about me being a string bean, and I am. Naturally tall and skinny I can still wear my Hello Kitty pajamas from when I was five. Not that I did very often, only when we'd run out of clean stuff if my mum was working away. They were a bit short on the legs but just looked like three quarter length which a lot of girls wore anyway.\nCarrie bounced up and down on the spot clutching the cookies to her chest. You'll have to buy the coke she said to Erin, grinning.\nCarrie was always moving, even when she was sitting in class she would be jiggling her legs and if the teacher told her off she would tap both feet up and down, glancing at the teacher from under her fringe so she could stop if she came over.\nMrs Morris, our teacher, was sweet and I hated the way that Carrie smirked behind her back when she turned to the whiteboard. She also called her a fat cow and would mimic the way she walked. An exaggerated waddle with her cheeks blown out and chin pressed to her chest to make as if she had a double chin. Everyone laughed, even me, even though I felt horrible about it. I liked Mrs Morris and didn't think that she was that fat. Carrie called everyone fat and would make gobble, gobble noises when we sat down at lunch opening our boxes, looking forward to the sandwiches, crisps, biscuits and fruit. We sometimes do swapsies, but Carrie would just give her lunch away, claiming not to be hungry.\nI was certain that she ate in secret though because although she was skinny she wasn't that skinny and anyway, wouldn't person pass out if they didn't eat all day?\nI didn't know that Carrie was meeting us. Erin was such a push over, Carrie had probably invited herself. Erin pulled out her purse and checked what money she had. I wanted to say that she didn't have to go and buy the coke. If Carrie wanted coke she could go and get herself, and for that matter she'd just bought the cookies so why hadn't she got the coke at the same time? \nI knew why she wanted to Erin to go get it. Just like I knew why she didn't ask me. I wound the headphones back around my phone watching Erin as she skipped up the steps into the shop. Carrie was babbling away about something that her swimming teacher had said and when I didn't reply she poked me with her foot. Her hands being full.\n'Hey,' I said. 'Don't do that! I don't want your feet on my clothes.' \nCarrie rolled her eyes mimicking me in a fake, whiny baby voice, moving her shoulders in time to the sing song 'Don't do this. Don't do that.' Her blonde ponytail swinging.\nAnybody glancing over would just think that she was singing a cute rhyme or pop song. \nI looked away. 'What time is your mom picking you up?' I asked her.\n'I'm just going to text her when I'm ready.' She replied. 'She thinks I have band practice.'\nThat was the other thing about Carrie. She was a liar. She even lied about stupid stuff like her cat being sick so she hadn't slept all night.\nErin came back with a clear plastic carrier bag, two big bottles of coke visible behind the Subway green and yellow Subway logo.\nCarrie glanced at it then set off running in the direction of Erin's house. I followed, a sick feeling in my stomach. Walking suddenly felt like an effort and I wished that I'd gone straight home. Instead I trudged after Carrie and Erin, hands deep in the pockets of my blazer. \nErin's mom was always home. She ran some sort of Internet business and had an office at the back of the house. They also had a cool family room with big squishy sofas, a TV, a games console and a Wii. But we weren't going there.\nErin's room was on the third floor, up a set of narrow stairs. It was the only room up there apart from her ensuite bathroom. She had big skylights instead of windows and the ceiling sloped down over the double bed which stood on the right as you went in. There was just enough room to sit up in bed at its lowest point. Erin had adhesive stars sprinkled over the ceiling and sets of fairy lights twisted around the book case, dressing table and a huge floor standing mirror. The door to the bathroom stood ajar, facing us as we went in.\nCarrie tossed the cookies onto the bed and then threw herself backwards after them. Arms and legs flung out as she were on a trampoline. 'Put some music on Erin!' She called as if it were a party. Erin went over to the her iPod dock and scrolled through before settling on some boy band that everyone was crazy about.\nI dropped my backpack onto the floor and then sat down, my back against the wall between the door frame and the mirror. I hugged my knees to my chest watching Carrie as she started tearing open the cookie wrappers and making a pile on the bed, using one of Erin's T shirts to catch the crumbs. She had impressed on us before that NO ONE MUST FIND OUT what we were doing. I thought there was no way I was going to tell anyone what they were doing and anyway kids ate cookies all the time so the exaggerated secrecy was pointless.\nAfterwards she would gather up all of the wrappers and push them deep into her or Erin's bag to be thrown away in a litter bin on the street. She always left a wrapper though, just in case Erin's mom wanted to know what the crumbs were. She also left the empty bottles, squashed into Erin's waste paper bin. 'No one will notice those', she would say. 'It's normal to drink coke.'\nWithin half an hour she and Erin had eaten all of the cookies and drunk most of the coke. Carrie had even sent Erin downstairs to get ice cream out of the big, silver, double fronted freezer in the kitchen. 'Don't forget the spoons!' She yelled down the stairs after her. 'And don't take too long!'\nCarrie came back into the room pushing damp strands of hair out of her eyes. They both got flushed and sweaty as they stuffed themselves.\nI stared at my knees, miserable. \n'Who died?' Carrie said to me as she swirled in front of the mirror before collapsing on the floor clutching her stomach. 'God. I feel so sick!' She said. 'Maybe I won't need to use my fingers this time. I read about this girl who can throw up just by leaning over. How cool is that? Hope I'll be able to do that one day.'\nI climbed to my feet. 'Maybe I'll just go home.' I muttered.\n'Party pooper.' Said Carrie as Erin came back into the room. 'We're almost finished anyway. Doesn't look like much ice cream.' She said to Erin.\n'It's all we have. My mom hasn't been shopping yet this week.' Erin looked pale and little beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. She seemed out of breath too, but then she had just climbed three flights of stairs.\nCarrie started on the ice cream without sitting down. 'This is good.' She said 'Have some.' She stuck the square plastic container under my nose and I could see the glitter of tiny ice crystals and the thousands of tiny cracks and ripples across the surface. There were irregular dips and peaks where scoops had been taken previously. Most likely while Erin, her parents and her brothers had watched a movie at the weekend. Erin had told me that that was her favourite part of the week. They each took it turns to choose a movie. The only rule being that it had to be suitable for the whole family which included Erin's seven year old brother. \nCarrie had said that meant that all they could watch was lame stuff. Not like the films she watched when her sister was babysitting. She claimed to have watched all kinds of gross stuff. Like one film about a doctor who had sewn people together so that their mouths were attached to the other peoples' bottoms. I couldn't see why anyone would do that or watch a film about it, but then I couldn't see the point of a lot of stuff that Carrie did and said.\nI preferred Frozen and Shrek, stuff that Carrie called babyish. Me and Erin sometimes watched a film downstairs in the family room after school and today we had planned to watch Glee for about the millionth time before Carrie had arrived.\nI wished we were downstairs now, cross legged on the floor and singing along as the lyrics danced across the screen, a box of freshly microwaved popcorn and a can of coke between us. Instead here we were, in a room that was suddenly too hot and close. I could smell the sugary, sticky sweetness of the coke and the ice cream, and hear the slurping and the noise of the spoons bumping against the plastic sides of the container as Erin and Carrie finished it. Spoons moving quickly along the edges and into the corners, competing to get the last of it like little kids did.\nI wanted to get out of there but I realised that I didn't want to leave Erin on her own with Carrie. Maybe it was just jealousy. Erin was my best friend after all and I was tired of Carrie always crowding in and taking over.\nI sat back down on the bed. 'Can we watch Glee after, like we said we would?' I said to Erin. 'Sure.' She said. And that was the last thing I ever heard her say.\n\nHer mom and dad still hope that she'll wake up and they go everyday to see her. She's been moved into a long term care home for people with head injuries and stuff. I go every week too and tell her all about school and our favourite bands and TV shows. Sometimes I run out of things to say and then I just sit and stare out of the window until my mom comes to pick me up.\nIf I had known I would have stopped her I told my mom when she sat me down and asked me what had happened that day. 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      "body": "@@ -41,20 +41,25 @@\n e full, \n-even\n+including\n  the cor\n@@ -75,18 +75,8 @@\n xes \n-were full \n desp\n@@ -114,27 +114,8 @@\n ere \n-you looked you saw \n eage\n@@ -392,18 +392,16 @@\n d thrust\n-ed\n  at them\n@@ -440,39 +440,22 @@\n one \n-it seemed was in their seat and\n+was seated but\n  the\n@@ -497,28 +497,8 @@\n the \n-players came out to \n warm\n@@ -522,24 +522,22 @@\n e match \n-starting\n+itself\n . Apart \n@@ -869,20 +869,17 @@\n s gloves\n- and\n+,\n  mirrore\n@@ -913,33 +913,36 @@\n eir \n-heads turned towards some\n+eyes swept the crowd for any\n one \n@@ -1360,18 +1360,8 @@\n ent,\n- just like\n  the\n@@ -1571,19 +1571,26 @@\n watched \n-him\n+the umpire\n  climb u\n@@ -1769,19 +1769,18 @@\n ps again\n-. H\n+ h\n e moved \n@@ -2791,25 +2791,26 @@\n  During \n-the match\n+challenges\n  everyon\n@@ -3060,16 +3060,17 @@\n Hawkeyes\n+'\n  verdict\n@@ -3088,16 +3088,230 @@\n ive and \n+used the very latest optical and statistical packages to settle the challenge. People sometimes disagreed but the thousands of trials and research showed unequivocally that it was more accurate than any human eyes.\n %0AWould t\n@@ -5786,30 +5786,72 @@\n on? \n-Was it just skin deep?\n+Jesus, there was the scar, a thin pale seam just below the knee.\n  %0AI \n@@ -5882,22 +5882,35 @@\n hen \n-re-opened them\n+looked again at the players\n . It\n@@ -6056,20 +6056,16 @@\n ender's \n-was \n Weyland \n@@ -6131,26 +6131,11 @@\n nst \n-a background of an\n+the\n  end\n@@ -6175,16 +6175,27 @@\n on logo \n+background \n a photo \n@@ -6262,41 +6262,8 @@\n ght \n-and previous performances came up\n . Of\n@@ -6546,60 +6546,8 @@\n  it.\n- It was like watching Mann play himself in a mirror.\n  Eve\n@@ -6633,37 +6633,64 @@\n ve, \n-just diametric to one another\n+left, right, forwards, backwards, hypnotic in its rhythm\n . Th\n@@ -7694,12 +7694,19 @@\n ar, \n-bent\n+low, angled\n  pos\n@@ -7877,9 +7877,70 @@\n d, alert\n-,\n+.%0AThe umpire's voice rang out clear and authoratitive 'Serve.'\n",
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      "body": "They are like machines out there. John McEnroe The Independent.\n\nIt was packed court side. The stands were full, even the corporate boxes were full despite it being lunchtime. Everywhere you looked you saw eager faces, already pink and sweaty under straw hats with the familiar purple and green ribbon. Elbow to elbow, knees jammed against the backs of the blue plastic seating, some fanning themselves with whatever leaflets and brochures they'd picked up on the way in or had had thrusted at them before they could refuse.\nEveryone it seemed was in their seat and there were still minutes to go before the players came out to warm up, let alone the match starting. Apart from the fast backwards and forwards movement of the fanning no one moved.\nThat might have been because of the officers in their black uniforms and bulletproof vests, helmets tightly clipped with chin guards and machine guns cradled across their bodies who stood facing the crowds. Hands encased in black, armoured, fingerless gloves and mirrored sunglasses glinting as their heads turned towards someone who moved too quickly or suddenly.\nOn court the linesmen were already taking their places and the ballboys stood, arms crossed behind their backs and eyes front despite the buzz and palpable excitement. The place felt as tightly strung as a pro's racquet.\nThe umpire appeared. He looked middle eastern in origin and handsome in his dark suit and collar and tie. They were always formally dressed at this tournament, just like the players had to wear white and the officials never took their jackets off, even on the hottest days when you could feel the sweat trickling down your back despite sitting still and being in the shade. I watched him climb up into his chair and begin to tap at the screen in its angled holder on the right arm of the seat. Glancing up and around before standing in his seat and descending the steps again. He moved smoothly and without any apparent effort, hands and feet synchronised. He must have done this thousands of times. \nThen he walked across the court, looking at the net and laying his hand on the white tape, checking the tension, before returning to the chair and tapping the earpiece in his left ear. Was that some kind of signal? His shrugged his shoulders up and back down as he watched the tunnel where the players would emerge.\nThere was no music like there was at other tournaments, no booming loudspeakers to announce the players and their world ranking as they strode onto court, voice lifting at the end of each announcement like they did at boxing matches. Instead the spectators were assumed to know who was playing and the only announcements came from the umpire. After years of wrangling the organisers had reluctantly installed two large screens, one at each end of the arena on which would show the player's photo and a brief summary of their year so far as the moved briskly to their bench. During the match everyone, including the players, would stare at the screen waiting to see the solid, bright yellow line tracing the path of the ball across the court before it bounced leaving a grey elliptical shadow close to or on the line if the player was lucky. Hawkeyes verdict was objective and \nWould they use it today? I mean would it be needed? Couldn't they just use the contender's visual system?  Or, more likely, were there rules about the implementation of the programming? Would the contender even have challenges? Someone must have thought of it and I wondered how I had missed the media speculation about that detail.\nA roar went up, filling the arena, people were whooping, clapping and standing - even though we'd been briefed to stay seated at all times until the end of the match. Those who had stood up quickly sat back down when the security cordon facing them swing their guns forwards, pointing directly into the stands.\nThe reigning champion strode to his chair, two enormous bags slung one over each shoulder, raising one hand and dipping his chin in acknowledgement of the enthusiastic welcome. He was much bigger than he looked on TV: tall, broad, muscles clearly defined on his tanned arms and legs. A giant of a man, over six foot three and 175lbs, most of that muscle. I was so close that I could see the dark hairs on his forearms  and a pale thread of a scar just underneath his left knee. I thought I saw a slight tremor of his hands as he started to unpack his bags: bottles, towels, wrist sweat bands and several racquets in their flimsy plastic wrappers, obviously just back from the stringer, coloured tape wound around the base to indicate the poundage.\nAnother roar went up and then stopped abruptly. A collective intake of breath and then a sudden silence. There wasn't even the usual murmur audible when the crowd stopped shouting and hushed as a point progressed and the players kept the ball in play, apparently defying the laws of physics, before another roar went up as the ball skidded out or pounded into the net like a missile.\nAt first I thought it was déjà vu. The same dip of the chin and raised hand. The short dark hair, mild, soft expression in the eyes and self deprecating smile. Identical. It had to be weird glitch like the black cat strolling across the landing twice in that Matrix film. Some strange overlap between parallel universes? A tear in the space-time continuum? He, the contender, walked straight past Mann and took the seat on the opposite side of the umpire's chair.  As he came closer I noticed the badge on his sleeve and the logo high up on the left breast of his shirt. Just above where the heart would be. I realised that I didn't know much about this technology. How far did they take the imitation? Was it just skin deep? \nI closed my eyes briefly then re-opened them. It was, without doubt, two different people and the only way to tell them apart was the logo on the shirts. Mann's was Under Armour, the Contender's was Weyland Corporation. \nA new image flashed up onto the screens, against a background of an endlessly repeated Weyland Corporation logo a photo of the contender came up and basic statistics of height, weight and previous performances came up. Of course, apart from the physical information the rest was blank. This was his first match. The information identified the contender's name as Ash, just one word. The birth date as given as just 24 months ago.\nThe two players were now warming up. I had never seen anything like it. It was like watching Mann play himself in a mirror. Every stroke was matched: forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, serve to serve, just diametric to one another. The only difference came when Mann started to hit lobs - I think it was Mann, but by now I was so disorientated that it was difficult to tell - and Ash (was it Ash? I concentrated for a moment on the logo to make sure) came to the net to hit overheads and then moved smoothly into practice volleys. Mann came forwards as Ash moved back. It was like a well practiced dance. I wondered if they had played together before today and if so who, if anyone had won? \nI already had a headache and was starting to feel a little dizzy too. The crowd was so quiet that I guessed they were as disorientated as I was. I don't know what I was expecting when I got my tickets through from the lottery but it wasn't this. \nThe players returned to their chairs, both taking a long drink from their bottles before jogging back out onto court and tossing their towels to the ballboys behind them. The umpire adjusted his microphone and announced that Ash had won the toss and elected to serve. \nMann took up his familiar, bent position to receive serve, his upper body weaving back and forwards, racquet ready and whole focus on what was happening on the other side of the net. He looked relaxed, alert, ready.",
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      "body": "1Unfollow this entry\n\n\nOptions  Photo\nHorror\nPosted by K8EB, 13 June 2015 · 146 views\n\nHorror Psychodynamic Unconscious Fear \nIt's strange. I have always been terrified by horror films, books and TV series. Zombies were a particular fear of mine and I had nightmares and during breakdowns would think that they were in the house or the garden. I would be too frightened to even turn the light on. For good reason these episodes occurred mainly at night. The darkness had always frightened me and the absence of normal everyday life was dreadful to me.\nDespite, or perhaps because of my terror, I was also fascinated by horror. The way that some people are fascinated by a car accident or a physical deformity: you don't want to look and know that you will be horrified or disgusted by what you see but the compulsion is there nevertheless.\nPsychodynamic theorists suggest that this is the urge to discover, a primal, early childhood drive to explore the forbidden. Freudians relate it to the Oedipal or Electra complex, suggesting that it is representative of the desire for the child to discover what occurs in the marital bed. What is it that Mummy and Daddy do together? Kleinians relate it to the bad object and the desire to be destroyed.\nThe death instinct is one of two innate drives, the other being the life instinct. The death instinct is destructive, savage and cruel. We all have it according to the psychodynamic theorists. Anorexia, bulimia and other forms of self harm are, of course, manifestations of this instinct.\nMy desire to watch and to read horror can also be explained by the death instinct. That part of me that seeks destruction, harm, pain leads me to experiencing those things vicariously through film and fiction. It can also be an expression of mastery. If you can tolerate this then you are strong. You have seen and read the worst. It holds nothing unknown and you can start to deal with the scary stuff if you know what you are dealing with.\nThe other strange thing is that I am no longer afraid of horror. I binge watched zombie related TV and films late last year when I came out of hospital and once my concentration returned I also read a lot of horror. I am very choosy though and only read the best: H.P.Lovecraft; Edgar Allan Poe; Stephen King. The latter I was introduced to by my Dad when I was a kid. My whole family love King's novels and we sometimes talk about the greats, especially The Stand. I also follow the blog 'Rereading Stephen King' on The Guardian's book site. \nThis week something drew me back to It which is one of King's all time greatest. I remember it being really frightening when I last read it as a young teenager. I couldn't bear to see the image of Pennyweather from the TV series and the book haunted me for years. This time, despite not consciously remembering anything about the book - other than the clown - it has had almost no effect on me.\nThe only effects have been thinking about childhood, about bullying, about being a scared kid, and being disturbed by the suicide of one of the characters. He died how I had planned to last week and I wonder whether that scene is why I was drawn back to the book. Perhaps it is a way for me to start to process, vicariously, what I was doing in that hotel room.\nI had no idea that I had read that scene when I was a child. It makes me wonder how many of my fantasies and thoughts are strongly influenced by the media and events of my childhood. Consciously long forgotten but still stewing away in my unconscious.\nWhy aren't I scared? I think perhaps it is because the real monsters in the world are not supernatural but are actual people and events and the contents of our own minds. The most horrifying place that I ever found myself was in an Acute Admissions ward of a psychiatric hospital. The most frightening people I have met are those who were related or who slept in my bed with me.\nI can deal with zombies, vampires, soul sucking demons. I know what they represent. The stuff that I have real trouble dealing with are members of my own family and the zombies and monsters in my mind. That thing that could torture and kill me? It is me.",
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      "body": "1Unfollow this entry\n\n\nOptions  Photo\nUniversity Open Day\nPosted by K8EB, 19 June 2015 · 183 views\n\nYouth Hope Envy Future Family \nSitting in a Costa Cafe close to a major university. It is an open day so the town and the campus are flooded. Dozens of small groups led by someone wearing an orange T shirt with GUIDE written in enormous black capital letters front and back weave their way through the crowds. Occasionally they stop and form a huddle while the guide points and waves their arms expansively. Some of the group take advantage of the pause to check their phones while others look around, their necks swiveling and mouths half open preparing to be impressed. Others lean back, arms folded trying to appear world weary. Older people, obviously parents, are frowning, taking notes or checking their shiny, full colour, professionally produced guide. So this is where their hard earned money is going to end up. Is it as good as it should be at that price? Will Sophie or Ed be safe here? Sophie or Ed are standing at a distance from the parental shadow. Chatting to others their own age, relaxed in that easy way that a certain type of upbringing results in, they share stories of school or plans for a gap year. Little shrieks rising from the girls, some back slapping amongst the boys. When the tour continues they move off together, group identities established. \nThere is always someone standing at a distance, looking uneasy, usually in a black t shirt, jeans, a scuffed rucksack hanging from one shoulder. They are pale, a bit spotty either under or more usually overweight. Daylight and crowds seem to hurt them and they shrink away. Forced by parents or school to take part they would rather be at home, safe in their room with several screens glowing away, chatting with people called Grrrrrrrll76 or z_warrier. The guide moves on pointing out the sports hall with its Olympic size swimming pool and trophy winning water polo team.\nWhat occurs me is how much opportunity is out there. How exciting the world is if you are blessed with a stable home, a good income, good health. Based on your A level choices and grades you can choose what to study and where, how to live, to stay in halls or home or off campus. You can go abroad, you can join societies, take up different sports, make friends, fall in love, fall out of love, get the flu and recover, learn how to cook or live on fast food. Study hard or slack off. It's all there for the taking. I feel envious.\nIt is bewildering to me that there are millions of people in the world who have never been hit or abused by those who are meant to be caring for them. There are millions of women who have said no and been respected. There are millions of people who have never, seriously wanted to die. I struggle to believe this.\nThey are blessed. Of course they are sometimes sick, have family members die, have some money or job problems, have a car accident, have their hearts broken, weep with grief and pain but, but they are experiencing the normal ups and downs of life with friends and family who are supportive. \nI hope that they know how lucky they are because the majority of people stagger through life enduring rather than enjoying. I have no idea which of those young people or their parents are concealing their pain. I shouldn't make assumptions. We need to be kind to ourselves and to each other.",
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