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A science fiction called “Endless:”

He walked with an unbalanced gait across the barren, sooty regolith. Every time he took another step, he bounced upwards a little, then drifted lazily back down before the next one. It took him a long time to reach the Baker’s Awning. The place looked homey and warm against the ashy landscape, which seemed to blend right into the dark night sky.



He placed the dough on the table near the cabinet, then walked around to the front.



The awning looked to be supported by three posts rather than four, but that didn’t seem to effect it much. The Baker stood there, attempting to roll a long, cylindrical piece of dough, but it would not give from its rigid form.



“How’s the weather today?” he asked.



“Oh, rather dark, I should say,” the Baker replied, never looking up from his task. “What can I do for you?”



“I gave a cake to her, but she didn’t pay me. So now I must have another one. For her to pay me I need to give her a cake.”



The Baker kept on rolling. “But I already gave you the cake,” he mumbled unsteadily.



“Yes, but for her to give me the money I need a cake.”



“But I already gave you the cake,” the Baker repeated.



“I must have a cake.”



The Baker’s head twitched slightly to the left, and he stopped rolling. “What kind of cake do you need, sir?”



“One with strawberries on it.”



The Baker stood up straight, walked to his cabinet nearby, and opened it. Inside were many different cakes, all of which glittered with an icy sheen. There were none with strawberries on it.



“I shall have to make you one with this,” the Baker said and began to roll the dough again. The other stood there, waiting, staring off into the not-so-distant horizon. After a short while, the Baker said to him, “I am unable to make the cake for you.”



“But I must have it.” His whole body seemed to shudder a second, and then he continued: “I’ll take that cake as it is now.”





The Baker handed the other the dough cylinder, and the other strolled off towards the horizon. He walked for five minutes, and then stopped. To his left, a few feet off, he saw a miniature mountain. Near it, a shiny reflection. He turned and walked to the anomalous glint. She sat before him, staring off into the distance. One of her arms lay against the dusty incline, pointing to something. He leaned down to her.



“I brought you a cake,” he said, holding it out. She did not respond. He said again, with some urgency: “I brought you a cake. Now you must give me the money.”



No response. He stood there, staring at her. He let go of the dough and it swirled in crazy, slow arcs towards the ground, springing up a little cloud of the black dust, clouding his vision of her silver shoes. He straightened, and looked up the barren incline. At the top was another metallic sheen, it mirrored the starlight. He bounced his way up the incline. It was a rusted rectangular hull, buried deep in the regolith, crumpled around the edges with streaks of black across it. A hatch lay open near one end, and by it, a decal that read “I.G.R.F. Inter-Planetary Ship #4505”



He walked inside the hatch. Brochures lay scattered about the cabin. Some of the seats were disconnected from their mounts, and rested in crazy, unthinkable positions. He had to lean back because the whole craft sat with a slight incline, and at the bottom end there was screen with a singular chair in front of it. Someone was in the chair. He slid down to the chair. Empty sockets stared back up at him. In its hands was one of the brochures: He picked it up. On the front it read: “Intergalactic Renaissance Fairs presents you with an event you won’t want to miss!”



He turned it over. On the back it finished with: “These robots are as real as they get! Come to our medieval village and witness robots living out the daily lives of people back in the Dark Ages!” He blinked, and stared down at his arm. On it he saw his reflection: brightly-lit eyes, screwed in perfectly, an angular mouth, pasted on expertly, a small, narrow nose, punctured correctly, and two sharp, edgy ears, inserted carefully. He blinked again, and dropped the brochure. He left the craft, went down the incline. He didn’t stop but to pick up the dough.





He walked with an unbalanced gait across the barren, sooty regolith. Every time he took another step, he bounced upwards a little, then drifted lazily back down before taking the next one. It took him a long time to reach the Baker’s Awning. The place looked homey and warm against the ashy landscape, which seemed to blend right into the dark night sky.



He placed the dough on the table near the cabinet, then walked around to the front.


------
Since we cannot control it, we are slave to it. Whenever we try to stop and examine a single part of it, we are already an infinite number of parts downstream. What is it?



Comments

The following comments are for "Endless"
by cyberjmp

What it is?
Time. Each moment is now, a singular experience. You can't capture it, you can't bring it back, you can only appreciate it. Time is short, running out, yet infinite.
How have you been? I hope you're not in prision. I just want to thank you for your comments before. They were very insightful and helped in the overall scheme of the story. I want you to know that I've taken your advice and have been working on my sentence structure (well, on my grammar overall). It still needs work, and I'm still working on it. Are you working on something new? Something big I hope?
kmrdgrs326

( Posted by: kmrdgrs326 [Member] On: April 14, 2007 )





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