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to have and to hate

tw:contains questionable ethics

“Are you sure you want to do this?” the farm owner asked, brandishing a tool—a screwdriver of a fashion—in a newly-furbished arm.

“I need those eyeballs, Jon. These faulty ones they gave me aren’t worth the money I spent on them.”

“Still having those dreams, are you?”

“I’m plagued by the memory echoes. I get locked in them for what feels like hours. Forgetting is painful,” she cried.

The man patted her on the arm. “That’s the difficulty with fresh-dead things.”

“I tried, so hard.”

The cryo farm was filled with foragers searching for parts. She waited for his direction.

“I have a few people here that have been brain-dead for a long time. Their parts will cost a lot more but I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,” he said, cocking his head to the side.

She didn’t hesitate before transferring a million credits to him.

“I see you were serious,” Jon muttered, shaking his head at the ease with which she dropped the money.

“I am desperate,” she whispered.

“I know, my sweet. I know.”

He gave her the tablet to read over her file, an almost fraternal softness to his eyes. She would believe it if she didn’t know his true nature.

“Failure to assimilate this part will not be fatal?” she asked.

“No, it’s not fatal.”

“I’m ready,” she whispered, with a determined nod.

wc:229

He rolled up to the table with his morning coffee, intent to farm the rows of his mind. Such poor aging soil for the once-beautiful moments captured on film in stacks before him.

His hand shook as he slowly lifted another photo, trying to focus. The fashion familiar, the fraternal bonds fond, but the faces -- the faces --

He cursed the faulty memory he tried to furbish. Each photo newly marked and added to that stack sickened him. Failure wasn’t fatal, but forgetting was painful -- once intimates filling his life with joy now reduced to half-remembered, barely readable names.

Why was time so cruel? One day he might forget this exercise, forget what he had forgotten -- would he find peace then? For now he pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, his glasses sliding off, and wept for the memories that died too early on the vine.

(Word count: 146. Please let me know what you like/dislike about the post. Thank you in advance for your time and attention. Other works can also be found linked in r/atcroft_wordcraft.)

##Moonlight on the Gun Barrel

I sit next to Brandon on the porch of his farm. The rocking chairs are faulty, and pieces of wood are missing from the floor. There was a roof, but all that remains are pillars. The next owner will have to fully furbish it, but its decayed fashion fits our conversation.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m eighty-two; I could go any day now.” He smiles at me. “Failure isn’t fatal; they just want you to think that.”

“It was for you,” I reply.

“Only after I lived a long life of freedom.” The sun sets over the crops before us. “The hardest part was forgetting. Forgetting is painful when your conscious is heavy.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say.

“May I make a request on the method? Consider a favor to a brother in arms,” he says. I have no fraternal feelings for him, but I nod anyway. “When the moon rises, I want you to shoot me in the head. Get it over.”

“I can do that.” Within a half hour, the moon rises. I pull out my handgun and complete the job. I get in my car and drive off.

r/AstroRideWrites

92.1 MHz “Measures are still underway to mitigate damage. Worldwide—”

103.5 MHz “Please proceed to the nearest shelter. Assist your neighbours and those who—”

107.3 MHz “Our efforts to avert the danger have failed, but failure isn’t fatal. We, as a nation, must—”

Last thing I wanted to hear now were old recordings of PSAs and the President’s speech. The FM radio choked and died after that one. Faulty antenna, if I had to guess. Not like I could come out there and check. A phantom buzzing still filled the bunker for a minute or so before true silence set in. What a mess. It didn’t take long for the quiet to become oppressive. I turned on the AM receiver.

590 kHz “Welcome to the last Greatest Hits show on Earth. No one can sue me for copyright infringement in the apocalypse so here’s Highway to Hell—”

630 kHz “Anyone wants to give me some tips on how I should furbish my bunker? How about something in 90s fashion? I have power tools, supplies, and only seven cans of food, so I might as well—”

790 kHz “You’re not alone. I’m not sure who’s listening, but I’m guessing someone needs to hear this. It’s okay. We can be together until the end. Just don’t turn off the radio. Listen to my voice…”

I stopped on that one.

In the Afterglow

​

The faintly silver and white rocks scramble over one another as they tumble from the trough of the refurbished yet faulty excavator. The fashion of that brutal wave fits this place. I move my hand to the lever to bring the trough back up - it doesn't respond immediately. Nor does the excavator.

One of the other workers see's my vehicle lagging. Through the gray haze, I see him begin to trudge over. It's odd how quickly anyone can become a brother to you. Fraternal bonds formed from the sprouting seeds of death. Each of us, then all of us, soon none of us.

As he gets closer to the metal cabin of the beast, I see his features differently through the smudged glass. His withered face turns to a rounder, kinder thing. His eyes are green like mine. Like my son. Forgetting is painful. Yet in that moment, remembering is agony.

"I can finish up. Rest now." His voice comes gently as he opens the door. As he moves my hands from the controls, a bit of my skin sticks to the lever.

While my failing eyes watch him work, I see him morph further. Slipping deeper into the image of my love and my loss. We came here to die. Secretly though, we all hope to see our loved ones one last time, born again by the sickly glow.

​

WC: 230

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Ohhhh a Pyro story! Always a treat to see that :D

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Delusions of Bliss

​

Forgetting is painful, but knowing is worse.

Joining the Covenant of Eternal Bliss was supposed to be the answer. A promise of relief. The lifting of worldly burdens through spiritual enlightenment. Members were said to feel fraternal and sororal bonds with all those that transcend. Peace at last.

Of course, this was all lies.

Still, millions flocked to become part of The Congregation as if it were going out of fashion. Who’s to blame them, I can’t as I was one of them. the world we live in is a hellscape of strife and injustice, of war and death, so it’s no surprise we leapt at the chance of escape, no matter the cost.

We swarmed newly furbished centres across the globe, places that would perform a miracle surgery, one that would separate mind from body. True escape from the material world.

It’s not surgery, it’s torture. An old technique was implemented, one from a more barbarous age where driving spikes into the brain was once considered healthcare. Strangely, failure isn’t fatal, but death would be more welcoming as one becomes a prisoner of their own mind. They become a passenger, viewing through the glazed lenses of a zombie shipped off to slave away, housed in battery farms, producing infrastructural materials for the Covenant and their allies.

My surgery failed. The farm is my life.

I wish I could forget.

​

[WC: 230]

Find more of my stuff at r/TheHiveWithUdders.

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Gran insists she doesn’t need help. She’s run the farm for fifty years; she can handle a few more. Her routines have fashioned well-worn ruts into her life. She’ll forget me before she forgets to feed the sheep.

If only that were enough. Things increasingly slip through ever-widening cracks. Another year, another door off its hinges, another piece of machinery grown faulty and rusting. Failure isn’t fatal. Not usually. It’ll take more than routine to keep both her and the farm from collapsing.

The farmhouse has become disordered and dusty where it was once meticulous. Mortar crumbling. Pipes leaking. Every room needs refurbishing.

I leaf through Gran’s photo albums. Easy smiles and fraternal hugs and recurring facial features. Page after page of unnamed faces. Strangers.

It’s not just the forgetting that’s painful. It’s the loss of what I’ll never have.

I harvest what’s left of the neglected vegetable garden while Gran does her rounds. The ones she still remembers, at least.

Withered roots slip free from the soil like surrender. Only one puts up a fair fight. Eventually, it bursts from the black earth, its twisted roots clutching the pale-smooth form of a human skull.

I stare into its empty sockets. It stares back.

I try to list them all; the deaths, the disappearances, the family who have since ceased to be my family.

And I know I’ll never know.

--------------

230 words

r/Quiscovery

Not Fit for Birds

Daniel was tired of cleaning up intestines. The thresher was faulty, cutting up skin and muscle but leaving organs and softer tissue to gum up the machinery. He worked into the night, brushing by stalks of bodies fashioned from grafting people and corn together.

They screamed as he turned the machine back on, the gears once again spinning flesh into food.

He felt no connection, no familial or fraternal bond. These were engineered people, not real in any sense to him. He knew real people who starved to death after the blight. His father had been one of them.

Forgetting is painful. Daniel did not want to remember his father's bruised ribs, the concavity of his chest.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, walking back into the house where he wife sat, stirring an ancient pot full of stew. Small pieces of thigh and belly floated to the top.

She was a small round woman with the face of a moon maiden. She never seemed to smile but he didn't mind that.

"I miss the birds," he said.

They'd stopped coming around when he switched the crops. Nothing to eat for them he supposed though the ravens had sometimes come and made a mess of the eyes just for the hell of it. Animals avoided his farm. Or they were all dead. He wasn't sure which was worse.

W/C 229

Epilogue

Dearest Ernst,

There is much I wish to say, but this scrap must suffice.

You have helped me to confront my fear of not measuring up to the duties of a Seeress, and taught me that failure isn't fatal. You have given me so much that I cannot possibly describe the full extent of my gratitude on this parchment.

My fate was chosen long ago. The Visions make it clear what I have to do, what I have done. You must move on, but as the philosopher Venetius remarked, forgetting is painful. I’m sorry.

As I write this, we’re preparing for the battle ahead. I will miss the fraternal bond we shared; Pallimachus for his faulty spells, and Callixtus for his joie de vivre. You have been the best of companions.

This farm is where our story began. It’s special to me and the reason why I have left this note here. You once shared with me your dream to settle on a farm with your daughter. Attached to this letter is a deed for the property and its surrounding lands, in short, it is yours now.

Fashion a new life for yourself, and furbish it with new and happier memories. I await you now from the Eternal Shore. When your time comes, we will be reunited.

Ah, I am running out of space…

Gods keep you my love,

Isilmë

---

Count: 230

Rites and Wrongs

A familiar, heavily bandaged agent met Gladys as she left the interview facility.

She fought a smile. "Hello again, Two First Names."

Dale glowered. "How'd the talk go with Penelope?"

"Well enough for wishing."

"Which means..?"

"She'll be more friend-shaped, by and by. After a few unpleasant nights, assuming failure isn't fatal." Gladys started walking; it was quite a distance to the Agency's front gate. They liked the Farm wide-open, with minimal cover for escaping inmates.

He fell into step. "We appreciate the favor. Miss Dessemer's fraternal uncle is Senator-"

"I know."

"And it's an election year, so-"

"Public embarrassment, aye. A rogue witch-niece is terribly bad for his image," she snarked. "Politicians are faulty corkscrews of personality."

Dale made a business decision. Specifically, to mind his own business. "We settled your mortgage. You're good for the month, after a fashion."

"This month? It's the twenty-sixth!"

"That was the deal," he looked smug beneath the bandages.

She eyed him. "'Not a single farthing furbished to the poor, Prince John?'," Gladys quoted.

"What's your phrase? 'The world balances'? And I'm not a Sheriff."

Gladys grinned, impressed. "You've read Robin Hood?"

Dale stopped just before the turnstile. Click-clack. Slam. "Saw the movie. Have a good day, ma'am."

She waited until he walked off, then cupped both hands to shout. "Caw! Caw!"

Watching him duck and panic was worth it. Forgetting is painful.

​

WC: 230

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I need to go through your profile and read stories, Pyronar. You have the exact same style of material I like to binge!

Okay, this one got me. The questions are kind of unnerving and unresolved in a way that pulls my imagination-- gonna give it a lot of thought.

Okay, I read this twice and got creeped out a bit. I need an explanation! Are they cannibal farmers, and wow that's a pretty dark thing to think about.

Duality: Harmony

Chapter 7

Previously: Harmony entered a memory vault where trees were situated like museum displays. She is reading through the vault logs—the plaques affixed to the displays.

Vault Log, exhibit seven:

Dear Grace,

We’re on a care-convoy today. Visiting a local sheik and bringing them goodies. He fed us lamb, which was both my first and last experience with it. I’m sure his flock?...gaggle?...or whatever probably had one less today than it did yesterday. He told us failure isn’t fatal—a proverb maybe. But I’m sure the sheep didn’t see it that way when it failed to avoid selection.

The kids here are wi~~~ ... Ignore that. Kid wanted my pen but settled for my sunglasses. I wasn’t terribly attached to them. The hinge was faulty, so they didn’t close right. Kid didn’t mind though. He furbished them up nicely with a center-mass thumb print as he slid them on. It must’ve been high fashion to him. He just grinned from ear to ear and ran off.

Which brings up something vital...I’m going to need another pair in the next care package. Nothing fancy! I’m serious. It would just be a waste. I’ll either smash them in a pocket or lose them when I’m accosted by the next herd of kids.

We’ve got a good group of guys and girls here, and trips like these are just good for the soul, you know? Our bond’s fraternal, and I doubt I’ll ever forget them. For some things, forgetting is painful.

Gotta go. Talk soon.

Yours truly,

Daniel

WC: 228

Feel free to check out earlier installments here:

Duality Collection

Great story! I really enjoyed your implementation of frequency!

He called it a commune, a brotherhood, but there was nothing fraternal about our life here.

The house was fully furbished by the time we arrived. He had plenty of time to prepare our rooms for us. Strangely enough, he hadn't found the time to buy proper farm equipment or actually learn how to live off the land. He hadn't even written up a basic set of house rules. He didn't care, and I mistook that for composure.

"Failure isn't fatal," he would say after the latest blowup over broken tools or cleanup duty. "This is a setback for all of us, but we'll learn. We'll do better."

Everyone learned a lot in those days. We learned not to question him or point out his mistakes, only fix them quietly when he wasn't paying attention. He learned how to use food and love to keep people in line. He saw all of us as collections of faulty parts to be fashioned into useful components in his design, and we were all so easily replaced.

He soon dropped his unwritten three-strikes rule. Another eager young idealist was always available to move in. Forgetting a friend is painful but I got used to the sting quickly. It hurt less than his wrath.

He'd never wanted brothers. Only serfs and subjects. But by the time I realized that, it was already too late.

Thank you for the compliment! Most of my stories are posted on /r/Pyronar since I don't really use new-reddit's profile features. Unfortunately, due to recent events and general prolonged writer's block I haven't posted much there in a long while, but there is still a fairly large backlog of stories if you wish to read them.

#A Taste of Home

Claye paused, struggling to catch his breath in the thick, humid air. It had taken him months to fully furbish the greenhouse module with planters fashioned from their dismantled ship—sowing seeds, discarding the faulty, nurturing the needy. His work was finally coming to fruition.

Wiping his brow, Claye returned to his prize plant. Luscious leaves spilt over the soil, sagging under the weight of bright red berries. The sight made his mouth water. Subsisting only on freeze-dried, vacuum-packed rubbish, he'd almost forgotten what real food tasted like, and forgetting was painful. But Arjun would kill him if he didn't wait.

He activated his comms. "It's time."

The young man appeared round the door, panting.

"Did you run here?" Claye asked.

Arjun grinned. "I wasn't sure I could count on fraternal loyalty to hold you back from the feast."

"Feast!" he scoffed, picking the two ripest, reddest strawberries. "We're only having one each! We've got to ensure failure isn't fatal."

"Fine," the young man sighed. "On three? One..."

They lifted the fruit to their mouths.

"Two..."

Claye's lips brushed its skin.

"Three!"

He bit down, sweet, tart juice flooding his mouth. Savouring every second, he chewed until the last drop of flavour faded before glancing at his friend. "So," he said, "what do you think?"

Arjun started out of his reverie, meeting Claye's gaze with a grin. "Tastes like home."

WC: 230

I really appreciate any and all feedback

See more I've written at /r/RainbowWrites

‘The Gale’

—-

A gale blew fierce and biting. The offshore wind farm’s maintenance platform shook as turbines spun in a precarious fashion.

Mack and Jack, the only fraternal twins on the rig, eyed the giant machines with concern.

“Number six looks faulty,” Mack groused.

Jack bit his lip. “Blade failure isn’t fatal.”

“But in this weather, it could be.”

They both gallows laughed, as a colleague had been killed last week.

Jack’s eyes glistened as he angrily wiped a tear away.

“Ain’t no shame in that. Forgetting a friend is painful.”

The two men’s weathered faces returned to the number six GE apparatus. Its blades shook intermittently before grinding to a halt.

“That’s not good. Number 23 did something similar before detaching in the accident.” Jack took a drag of his hand-rolled cigarette.

“I know. So we’re going to have to fix it. Somehow.”

“Yeah. It won’t just be a cosmetic furbish, either. Someone will have to climb the tower and do proper repairs.”

Identical grey eyes exchanged looks, surveying the structure's entire length.

“Not it!” Mack shouted, laughing.

“Won’t work this time, bro. Gonna need both of us for this.”

As they walked over to the Zodiac raft to get to the turbine, a great crash sounded, forcing a deluge of water on deck. They clung to the railing with all their might.

“Lost the generator, but at least we’re alive.”

—-

WC: 230

—-

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

Note for Campfire reader: D'palage is not supposed to be French. It is a shortening of Deep Pelagic. Do what you will with that.

“What’s the frequency Kenneth?”

“It’s at 50MHz, just like you said.”

“Check. Check. Still nothing over there?”

“No, dad. Why are we still trying to furbish these antiquated radios anyway? It’s not like we can use them to talk outside the dome and they’re huge.”

“Ha. They are big compared to things today, even were when my dad brought them down. But this helps us remember our roots, a time when we lived above the ocean. Forgetting is painful to some, including your old man here.”

“Well, I don’t want to live down here. There is nothing to do but collect thermal heat and sell it to some rich prig living in a bubble near the surface.”

“I understand, I was young and dumb and--.”

“I’m not an idiot! I just don’t like school.”

“I didn’t mean that. Look, failure isn’t fatal. You can try for the Navy Exams again. Go out and see the seas like you wanted to.”

“That was a stupid kids dream. I don’t need school or exams. I’m going to D’palage 4 and joining their Abyssal Run team.”

“You can’t just walk onto a team son. Their practically a fraternal order. You have to have an in with them, be like them, act in their fashion.”

“I’ve already been recruited. You never cared to notice. I’m outta here.”

“Wait!”

Slam

“What’s the frequency Kenneth?”

WC: 230

FAU: Fantastical Analysis Unit - Part 2

part 1

Leesha rubbed the case file on the passenger seat as the car bounced down the driveway. Her mind hoped he’d have the answers. The aging farmhouse begged to be furbished and shutters clinged in a fraternal fashion. The old man rushed to greet her, slowed by a cane.

“Kelton, I wish this was on better terms,” his voice cracked, reaching out his free arm.

She returned the half-hug, helping him back inside. “Me too but I need to show you this file.”

His faulty body struggled into the recliner. “You’ve got my attention.”

“They’re escalating. I know the fae are behind it but I don’t know why.” She shuffled through the file. “These’re photos taken at the last few scenes. It’s every day. No longer small CUs. All businesses are at risk. I can’t fail.”

“Ah. The fae don’t usually care for human interests. Decades ago, we had a similar problem when they refused to assimilate, so the fae played tricks. That’s why we made the agreement ‘bout staying outta sight. And failure isn’t fatal, Kelton.”

“You’re right. But something’s in it for them besides money and jewelry.”

“Y’know, back then, it was rumored they wanted the key. But the superintendent wasn’t havin’ it.”

Her eyebrows raised, “Could he’ve changed his mind after all these years?”

“Even if he has, we haven’t forgotten. Forgetting is painful.”

—-

WC:226
Apologies if there are formatting issues I didn’t catch on mobile.

Also ouch this word count.

##1062

From the moment I am born, fully-grown and clawing free from the freestanding gestation sac, I know that I have a Mission.

With my first breath a veritable pinata of knowledge bursts in my mind, my synapses gobbling up the glittering facts like so much candy; foremost among them is the knowledge that I am clone #1062, and I have 23 hours to live.

A conveyor hums and pushes me along, furbishing me with armor and grafting a bioantenna (mostly painlessly) to my spine. I receive and integrate all memory downloads from my recently deceased fraternal partner, #1061: here, forgetting is painful–no, is a sin.

The conveyor stops. To my left is a fashionable lounge, cushions and gentle amber light incongruous against the industrial birth canal I emerged from. To my right is a foot-thick, lead-lined door. Failure isn’t fatal, but everything behind that door is.

Memory shows that some of my predecessors have chosen not to act: faulty genes, or protest of this profligate harvest. Those clones spent their alloted hours relaxing, then dying regardless.

What does it say about my designers that they’d allow this choice?

I thought of #1063 behind me, already being quickened in a nutrient slush in the clone farm. If he’s going to have a chance for a better time of it than I did, well…

I head right, to the Mission.

WC: 228

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This was great, GD! Very existential. Small thing—I got a little lost on the quickening part. May just be a me thing