To celebrate a month of jumping on social media with my writing, here is a little snippet I wrote about this time last year.
I have been so busy lately that I’ve been struggling to get things written, to be honest. Sure, I’ve been greatly productive in the other areas of life, but it has not left much time for writing.
I intend to fix this (because now I am out of short stories I have written in the last year) and you’ll be getting some nice, fresh stories the next time I post one.
Words and lights flash before my eyes. Women in office attire, their hands filled with small synth-chips.
“Buy one get one free.”
“While stocks last!”
Neon words above their heads.
My head jerks to the left, and the men come strolling past, all muscles and tanned skin and perfect, bright white teeth.
But I have no interest in exercise or the enhancements that might make me, at the very least, look like I have an interest in exercise.
So the men disappear in a flash of fluorescent blue to be replaced by small hounds.
Numbers across their muzzles, hovering above their heads. Prices, odds.
“Figaro.” I like the sound of that one, taking note of his name for the trifecta.
I never went in person to the races, too many animal activists wired up to the teeth with enhancements, anger in their eyes, interrupting the show, upsetting the bookies.
At this stage, I can’t comprehend why they don’t just make them digital. It would have saved pumping the dogs full of adrenaline and untested chemicals. No point in betting then, I suppose. More easily rigged than the live races, less excitement.
Disregarded now, the dogs flash out of sight and away.
Something more risqué. Women with breasts the size of my head, others with perfectly childlike bodies, more with skin the colour of bronze, of snow, of the night sky. Stars sparkle through their hairless skin, their nipples and mouths.
I pay them little attention, and the bodies shift and swim, breasts smoothing to flat planes, the coloured patches of hair between their thighs wriggling and morphing.
Until they are no longer women at all, and the men’s lusty eyes follow me instead.
I grimace. That wasn’t what I had meant by my dismissal.
But then again, this is not my show.
The floating creatures of sex begin to perform wilder and wilder acts.
Men on men, on women, on great beasts that were, perhaps, once upon a time either men or women. Now, they are huge and furred, or slick and tentacled, or simply not there at all, unnoticeable, save for the reactions of their lovers.
That’s enough, I think, turning away. Willing the images to stop.
They do, and the mundane returns.
“Purchase two and enter the draw to win a year’s supply of Microbrand Ink.”
“Lost relative? We can help. Visit Page and Jackson Incorporated for more information!”
And the occasional triple-X ad that had somehow snuck its way into the public-friendly set.
“Mother of two, ready for you. Our girls do everything. All colours, all augments. Twenty-8-seven!”
And then it is fading in a swirling, grey mass. Replaced by light, by the sound of buzzing. By daytime.
I groan, roll over, and tell the alarm to shut the hell up.
“I was programmed to wake you up. Please commence rising procedure, sir.”
Instead, I roll back over and let my alarm order, then plead, then beg me to get up for the day.
To think, there was a time when I used to enjoy sleep.
tl;dr: consumerism will never die.