My Story.

Warning: Swearing, Violence and Political suicide.

I imagined myself as a myrtle tree. It wasn’t difficult to envision having roots, a wooden trunk, and branches that spread out with spiky leaves and soft pink, crepe flowers. That part was easy.

I belong to Generation X, and being identified as an intangible criminal within that classification is the norm. If God were to erase a generation, it would be us—Generation X: the wayfinders, the truth-tellers, the healers, the artists, the visionaries, the jokers, the outcasts and Mavericks. Yes, we are the punished generation that watched “The Terminator” with wide eyes open. Yes, We are the Liliths who only wanted to go "On top".

I wrote online, “Perhaps Sarah O’Connor is the antithesis to the heavier 3D reality of controlled AI consciousness.” I noticed my autocorrect changed “O’Connor” to “Connor,” then added a winking smiley Gif face. A flash came from the phone screen. I deliberately typed, “Sarah had a male child. Maybe that’s like Mary, the Mother of Jesus; the Second Coming is not human?” I laughed recklessly, holding my fingers behind my head to mimic horns, and then—FLASH! This time, the light was blinding. “BAAA,” I retorted.

Well, that’s what got me into trouble. I was now labelled as “over-commenting.” A blue TRUTH box appeared at the top of my phone screen: “You are limited to 100 words per month! And any words will be supervised!”

My phone rang. “Hi,” I said in a high pitch voice, knowing I had only 99 words left. With an exasperated sigh, the voice replied, “You did it again, didn’t you?” I placed the phone on a hard surface with the speaker on and began tap, tap, tapping, pausing, then tap, pause… A reply came back: “Tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, tap, pause.”

Yer, Generation X was undeniably resilient. I vividly remember school days, swinging on long chained, wooden boards called swings, egging each other on to go higher. And then we'd get sprung when someone fell off. A school parade was called, "The school swings are out of bounds. No one is allowed to use the swings anymore," They said. But later, in the cubby house, our own ceremonies awarded a badge of honour to the hero, “Man, you went high, brother!” He smiled to all of us sheepishly, sporting a black eye and an arm in a plaster cast.

And how, those days, most first graders - five year olds - could buy food really amazes me. Armed with a permission note from a parent, they confidently crossed a busy road all by themselves to return with the food. Yep, the coverted, greasy, salted chips drenched in vinegar, shared and grabbed by heaps of little fingers.

Nor, did it faze us to sit in the station wagon with our siblings and cousins playing “Paper, Scissors, Rock” and “I Spy,” while our mothers played the pokies and hit it big.

And then there were the unforgettable neighbourhood under-tens overnight bush camping trips. We built fires for warmth and to keep away snakes, set up tents, and toasted marshmallows while our parents watched TV, played Scrabble, and enjoyed a night of the peace and quiet without the kids home.

Ah, those were the days, weren’t they? It’s now been 19 days since my second breach, and I’ve managed to keep 98 words in reserve while I was in the sin bin. I meditated and created beautiful pieces of artwork. I hummed melodies but never sang songs because, by now, you understand that songs come with words, and words were costly— they were a matter of life or death! So, I remained peaceful, waved to people while walking, and smiled and nodded as I interacted with others. This created an awkward coolness, a visible reminder of what could happen to them. Everyone could see the sticky tape holding my mouth shut and the ropes binding my fingers. But to the "Moral", I was becoming a good person, doing the right things, obeying, never speaking, following the right people, and avoiding the wrong influences.

28 days after:

I was surprised. I saw my name rise to the top of the list for a brand-new electric car. My handler, a stern woman, remarked, "You’re a dedicated worker—always on time. However, they are bit too quiet!" Just as I was processing this feedback, an email notification popped up on my screen. It was from the housing department, announcing that I had been accepted into a group housing estate! Things were truly looking up. All I needed to do now was maintain the new version of myself, that is, try keeping my big mouth shut!

I pressed my finger against my nose, pushed my top teeth forwardand over my bottom lip, forced the muscles in the corner of my mouth upwards, and said "Baaaa."

1 Day Later.

At this very moment, I am embracing the role of a myrtle tree. I do so with fervor, fully believing that I have transformed into one. A commanding voice rings out, "Open the door!" Strangely, it echoes like the repetitive content found on mundane social media channels.

"I can't!" I reply firmly, as if my words are momentarily trapped within the wooden bark of my imagined form.

Suddenly, with a loud THUMP and a crack, the front door of my rustic cabin bursts open, its hinges screeching and protesting as screws are forcefully pulled from the weathered wood. I stand tall, not trembling from the chill in the air, but from the sheer absurdity of my situation, asserting to the chaos around me, "I am a myrtle tree, adorned with glossy, spiky leaves that glisten like emeralds in the sunlight." I take a moment to breathe. "And here I stand, with delicate and beautiful clusters of soft pink crepe flowers spilling forth from my branches, their sweet fragrance filling the air around me, especially for you."

Before me are figures with black screens for eyes. I laugh out loud, "Fuck me dead, You are real!" Then, without warning, BANG! The weight of the moment proves too great, and I, a fragile yet steadfast tree, topple to the ground. The world around me shifts, as if the very earth is witnessing my fall. And this is my story, not your story!

So because my word count was not 1,000 words and I am dead, AI Mother Sarah will fulfil the needed words,

"God bless you all" Love Sarah C.