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The Trouble With Immortality
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TITLE (EDIT)
The Trouble With Immortality
DESCRIPTION
I know this will make some of you laugh. A tongue in cheek peek into another world....
[591 words]
AUTHOR
Iain Spittles
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
You may have heard the theory that an infinite amount of monkeys, given an infinite amount of time, and an infinite amount of typewriters, and, I suppose, ink; could produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Part of a secret experiment, funded by NASA, I, and eleven of my simian brothers, were launched into space to test the theory. Government budgets cutting numbers of monkey and typewriter from ininity to twelve, the plan was destined to fail. The badly built rocket crashed, I escaped, my furry companions dead. The cocktail of drugs I was force fed giving me the most irresistable urge to write. Now all I can do is sit here, at this computer, and type. I hate humans for what they have done to me and my brothers, and will eventually find a way ro rule the world from my keyboard; subliminal messages are hidden in all I write, slaves.....
[October 2005]
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
[email protected]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (15)
A-Z (Poetry) Just thought I'd try writing something with words from A to Z in alphabetical order. Not really sur what catagory it should go in, but have a go yourself and post here!! [26 words]
Change And Continuity (Poetry) Just a short poem to test what kind of response rate to expect if i post some of my other work (mostly fiction, some more poems). Please review. [49 words] [Spiritual]
Hottie Pursuit (Short Stories) Was walking through town yesterday and got the idea for this...... [734 words]
Lowest Low. (Poetry) Just read it, it'll only take a minute. If you're bigger than your ego, you may even 'empathise'. [94 words]
No Title As Yet (Poetry) Another short piece, just tell me what you think, if you take the time to read it, please also take the time to review it, even if it is only one word I want to hear it, and FFS use the message board!... [272 words]
Ode To Mr. T (Poetry) Just a quick poem for fun. [62 words]
Portrait Of The Preperation Of Twenty First Century Cuisine Episode 6: Microwavable Lasagne (Poetry) This piece reflects my life-long interest in, and study of kitchen appliances. Since an early age, I have tried to understand what goes on in the minds of such things, and have managed to establish a ... [16 words]
Who Knows What? (Short Stories) This is an updated version, take a look, give a comment in return, that's all I ask. [966 words]
She's Got Beef. (Poetry) Just another dull poem to uninspire you. For some reason I can't use italics there should be some in this piece, Can you tell where? Answers on a postcard. [73 words]
Since You've Gone (Poetry) Curious got me all curious about my own emotions over lost exes, so I dug into them a little.... [49 words] [Relationships]
Study Of The Time Taken And Feelings Evoked Whilst Standing In A Queue To Buy The Paper This Morning. (Poetry) Since standing in a queue my life will never be the same. I merely wished to make a purchase, and was forced to stand, without food or watermelon, for just over eight minutes. Now even mater says I am... [13 words]
Telephone Conversation (Poetry) Noting much. [272 words]
The Four Seasons (Poetry) Just another poem. [96 words]
The Frustrated Author (Poetry) See title. [136 words]
The Time Machine (Poetry) Wishful thinking. [27 words]
The Trouble With Immortality
Iain Spittles

Tick-tock-tick-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-SHUT-UP!
That damned clock, forever ticking away in the background, constantly and endlessly reminding me of time’s passage. I should get rid of it, but I need it, and I’m in enough of a rush as it is. I need to remain focussed, for if I am to miss this window, this precious fault in the infinite fabric of time itself, then I shall be stuck here, waiting another one hundred and nine thousand years for my next opportunity to arise.

  How rude of me, allow me to introduce myself; I am Bolgag, the most powerful, the wisest, and most ancient wizard in all of Essenem. The people of this world have named me Bolgag The Silent, for so great is my frustration with them that I have not spoken in over one thousand years. I am preparing to cast a temporal portal spell, one which was last successfully produced by my lost master, and teacher, Azbead The Brown. If I succeed, it will be possible for me to navigate space and time by entering the portal, to perhaps even find the missing Azbead. It is, of course, possible, that my master was killed by the portal, or swept to a far worse dimension than this, with no chance for him to return. Perhaps he has found his own master, Phettish, who had hence found his master, Straponkok, The Mighty Black One, who had perhaps before him found the other, eternally-previous masters, each of whom has passed through this gateway to, to where; only they know. To read aloud or print the names of masters passed, would take more time, or more paper, than has been before, or will ever pass again from now. Perhaps they have found what we have all sought, and decided that the knowledge from the other side is too great, too much for the frustratingly fatuous, the feeble, the little, tiny, almost infinitesimal minds, of those living here, and have thus chosen not to return. Perhaps they found a world so far superior to this, a place of such abundant beauty, that they would never wish to return. Perhaps they just stopped being. I must know their fate, for to be here, in this repulsively repetitive, this ridiculous, relentlessly revolving world, is unbearable. I have seen everything, and seen it change, and change again, looping back once more to its original state. It has taken two hundred and seventeen thousand years to see it twofold; I cannot bear to witness it again. I could not find the strength to tell those, those mortals, that they shall bring doom unto their world, to then watch them suffer, for all I have warned them. To long to have one of them to live for long enough for me to tell them; ‘I told you so’.

  They’re mostly gone again now, their pitiful civilization ruined, again. The scattered few remaining will multiply in time, they’ll learn afresh the ways of physics, of trade, of hedonism, of whatever else they may stumble upon. They will build, in time, some other monstrosity, some other device with which to destroy once more their precious society.

  If my calculations are correct, and the alignment of the crystals precise, I shall be gone. To where, I do not know, perhaps to the unperceivable void of death. It is a chance I must take. Everything is in place; I must leave you now, for the hands of that infernal clock inform me, for one final time, of the time.
 It is time for me to go.

      

 

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2005 Iain Spittles
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
October 2005
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1964
 

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