The Writer's 5th Turn

Allen sat down, coming to the calm conclusion that there was only ever one way. His phone flickered on its last percent of battery. An article beamed across:

“4th Turn of Writing: 99% of individuals cannot distinguish Synz’s New AI from a Human.”

Below, cuts of lines blurted out, “Faster,” “Cheaper,” “More original,” “Higher Truths about man.”

Then the calculations ran through his head of every unnecessary minute on the toilet, slept-in Saturday, and sorry excuse that annihilated any story idea. He watched the gray clouds diffuse into thick mist. Even if he had more time, he would’ve wasted it. The clarity in that hurt as straight as a dead leg to the thigh.

“There’s nothing to say, Al. They got the whole human language.”

People jogged along the pier. A brown vendor advertised hot dogs while a group of teens sat under a palm tree. Even the homeless men still wandered for a place to lie. There was an unofficial unreality to it. Allen’s breath grew sharper and shallower. There was nothing that could be felt or defined. With a reach to his chest, he felt his heart crunch close and blank of abyss veil his eyes.

From black to white. A mountain range formed. A car flew by. Walking down to the farm, he knew he had to get to the safe. It was him, Allen, another one at least. Scarily calm and knowing with a distorted face. A dark, curled-haired hamster drove away, leaving Allen stuck to paddle out of the air. Looking down, a stomach-grabbing force pulled him straight through a giant mouth.

“WHERE IS IT! WHO ARE YOU?”

A sticky sweat dripped from his face. It had been raining for some time as well. The pier had cleared and Allen lay nauseous on the soggy sand. The dream clung on for a few seconds in feelings. It felt as if he had ignored a pretty girl for no reason at all. Yet, reality brought him back in as the waves reached his toes. A buoy shook violently in the distance, still teasing the rising winds.

Allen quickly grabbed his phone, “Hey, Pablo… yeah it’s been a minute — hey are you free right now… okay, well, yeah right now right now… yeah, yeah that work’s perfect… see you then.”

Pablo’s T-shirt was wrinkled and ripped. The denim on his pants had faded several shades. Yet, there was a succinct vision in his glare.

“No coffee?”

“Caffeine will make me hallucinate — here,” Pablo pointed to a diagram, “This is the realm I’ve been in.”

The schematics depicted a type of headset connected to a screen. As Allen tried to envision the work, Pablo had already wheeled out the first prototype. It lay as a glaring contrast. For as much promise it granted, the item looked startlingly primal, as if a toddler in a tantrum decided to smash clunks of metal together.

Pablo beamed, “The 9th wonder of the world. Dreams.”

“How often do you use it?”

“Every time I close my eyes.”

“What’s it like?”

“If a shroom trip without shrooms.”

“What?”

Pablo shrugged, “Like, like you are seeing another life of yours, you realize you didn’t have. It took me several cycles to grasp that it was me. I was living all this out. It’s the closest we have to a simulation, except it’s completely not since it all really is happening. Just only inside your head.”

Allen craddled the machine, “It recounts my dreams?”

“It’s not Inception!” Pablo blurted.

“I never said it was!”

“I know what you’re trying to get at!”

“You’re all over the place!”

Pablo ripped the schematics out of Allen’s hands and explained, “It’s a glorified headset. The nodes inside measure neuron activity just like you see in the hospitals. With every action potential, the neurons in that dome of yours spike. But instead of action, I measure thought.”

“So you measure thought then basically print it out?”

Pablo went blank. Then frantically jumped onto Allen, slamming him down, “Was he wearing glasses! They want the patent, don’t they! I see them! I see them!”

“Pablo! Who? What?”

“2 years, Al! No word nor a peep from you. Now, you are here!”

“‘Cause you were in my dream!”

Pablo released his grip. “Hm?”

“Or at least it felt like you. You looked like a rabbit — or maybe a hamster, I don’t know. But you left me.”

“I see nothing but a projection of a subconscious insecurity.”

“No! Dude, we are running — we ran out of time. I know you’ve been following Synz.”

Pablo dropped his grip, “No, you have run out of time,” and picked up his machine, “I got my escape pod.”

The walls began disintegrating as the air turned thinner. A true regret formulated. The fact that it was becoming certain that the one way was the weakest act a human could perform.

Pablo aimed to walk by, but Allen held his foot, “I can’t be here. Writing is dead. They conquered language. I must go where there is none.”

“And find what?”

“The cure, Pablo, the cure to the flatness of this world. If I can just go mad, go into the abyss’s center — like a black hole, there must be something. A point of pure creation.”

“All just to make a story?”

“Yes. And I have to go on the other plane.”

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in that. You’ll end up in a full circle.”

“There is no other frontier left.”

Pablo stared down at his friend. In his last dream, Atlas cried as the boulder of a world he held was now a flat pebble. The god threw it onto a stove that a cook was struggling to light. The cook’s face was Allen’s.

“Okay. Get on the couch. It’s simple: Fall asleep and it’ll start. It will turn your brain just active enough to see your dreams as real occurrences. Unless you can — no just don’t do it.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you lucid dream?”

“Probably not?”

“Most definitely not. Dreaming or reality, it would be too much for your brain to differentiate. Just go to sleep.”

The device was fitted similarly to a sleeping mask. Pablo lit lavender incense. A rustling of paper followed pencil scratches. Allen sank into the couch while the rainfall tickled the window. He breathed as though the next would put him to sleep.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Harder, he closed his eyes. The blackness was only further blurred by more phosphenes.

“You don’t control it.”

Allen returned to his breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The phosphenes twirled, swirled, and fluttered. A bunch of stars compacted into two eyelids. People go to the moon, Allen thought. Was it that bright up there? No, things are too far apart. All that void. All that… space.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The rain picked up. Allen remembered the ocean earlier. Ocean and space. Not much different. One was a vacuum. The other was as if the vacuum turned into water. Can’t grab onto anything. Aliens… the marine life of the galaxy, no? Are there aliens? If….

The ROY-G-BIV array of stars abruptly dissipated. A tingy red filtered the megalopolis of buildings. Cicadas chants rapped the air. A donkey galloped past. Allen followed until they reached St. Francis Church. Mrs. Shell gave him a cigarette before telling him to sit down. They were learning about the difference between “new” and “knew.” A boiling pot of emotions bubbled out of Allen’s chest. He stood up and gave a speech.

“Love is what I am talking about!”

A congress of caddies rallied.

“Don’t let yourself be afraid!”

“Never,” they shouted back.

Alleen uncontrollably sobbed. The sun arose over the classroom, and his face was illuminated till a rancorous shout pierced him like a razor blade.

“You can’t lie there.”

Allen could not form any words.

“Stop lying there.”

A rigid cramp formed in his neck as if he had swallowed his throat. He was staring and knew it was wrong. An innate will told him to act. Getting up, he hugged Pablo.

“Why did you destroy it?” Pablo asked.

“It was already done before.”

“That was our invention!”

“I’ll carry everyone through this.”

“Where did you put it?”

It only made perfect sense to go to the national museum. A colossal painting humbled them. A stick stood straight with its arms parallel to the ground. People gawked at it as though it were the god. Some hippies circled around while one man in glasses explained his process. Revulsion possessed Allen. It seemed the artist was a dictionary. On and on he went about oil origins, the processes, and how this figured was the goal of man.

“It’s a stick figure!” jeered Allen.

The artist took a precise turn and disrobed Allen with his eyes, “What do you know about creation?

“Originality.”

“Doesn’t that entail to originate reality? Yet, you are here.”

“Where?”

“Dreaming.”

“I’m dreaming?”

“What do you know about creation?” the man barked.

“I’m dreaming.”

“From reality? Or from the thoughts that produce reality? Where is your story?”

“I’m dreaming.”

All sight had been concentrated down to a pinpoint vision. At the same instant, he found himself in a barren mountain range. The clanking cries of cicadas bleed his ears to near deafness. Though he did not fight it. Rather, he walked towards an imposing boulder. Carvings cut the rock all around. Allen’s first thought was a globe. On top of the cicadas, daunting thuds protruded within each trough and valley. An infinity grid of boulders rolled up while others raced down.

Allen placed his hand. It was deathly cold yet as movable as ice on granite. Up and up he shoved the massive rock. However, it changed shape with each stride. First, a ball. Then, a square. After, an oddly shaped motor. Then, Allen stopped. Pablo appeared and held his hand.

“It would’ve worked.”

“For what?”

“Everyone.”

“It would have just been another machine. We are not machines.”

“We are machines now.”

“For whom?”

A plateau developed, and the boulder lay still. Crack it, thought Allen. With a hard fist, he punched the stone. A jagged piece torn off like paper. Frantically, he scraped and clawed at the sandy mass as though he were digging into the ground. The smaller it got, the greater its force grew. After a final tear, a perfect black circle appeared, and Allen was swallowed in.

A soft trickle of numbers and letters fluttered by. They formed a cornucopia of patterns and pathways. Allen was still; however, there was nothing around him except crystal blackness. Faceless and skinless, a giant white figure sat waiting as if a bus were approaching. There was a fighting feeling to say everything, neither could talk nor depict their thoughts. Simply, they sat while the streams of code propelled throughout like ticker symbols.

Allen grabbed a letter. As he did so, a blank space spread out before him. Cautiously, he placed it down. The white figure nodded. Again, he reached for another. Finally, there was so much for him to say, but he could only construct it. An ascensional will took over while he put his head down and worked. As each space was filled, a perfectly new page appeared. In a blink, Allen had completed an Epic greater than the bible. Yet, he could not move it. The white figure placed his arm on it and took the work. It seemed thankful.

“I’m dreaming.”

No,” it finally said, “You create dreams now.”