Weekend Fiction - Oracle’s Conversation

Here is chapter 6 of my science-fiction serial Oracle.  I actually finished this chapter ahead of schedule.  Please feel free to offer any comments, suggestions or feedback.  Thanks!

Chapter 6; Oracle’s Conversation

“It’s Cyrus, right?” after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Melanie decided to break the ice.

“Yes, Cyrus… I'm Cyrus,” unsure what to say next, he continued; “it's nice to see you again.”

The strained conversation was interrupted by the return of the waitress.

“Are y’all about finished with your pie?”

“Yes, and it was great, just like my aunt said.”  Melanie responded.

“Oh, was that your aunt?” asked the waitress, “she's nice; a little bossy though.”

Melanie giggled.  “I guess you could say that.”

“Ya know; I'm awfully sorry about that, sometimes I just call ‘em like I see ‘em and put my foot in my mouth.”

“Don't worry about it; she was being bossy tonight.”  Melanie reassured her.

“I'll just leave the two of you to finish your coffee.” said the waitress, walking away.

Now that the waitress had broken the ice, Cyrus felt more comfortable.  “So, how long have you lived with your aunt?”

“About 2 years now; I moved here for work right after college.”

“She seems nice, sometimes a bit confused though.”

Melanie frowned slightly.  “She had a minor stroke about a year-and-a-half ago; she’s doing really well considering.”

Cyrus was seemingly lost in his thoughts for a moment, and then spoke.  “She’ll be doing better after she starts her new medication.”

“What new medication?”

“The medication her doctor prescribed at her appointment in 6 mon- …” Cyrus’ words trailed to a halt; “I, uh, I shouldn’t say anything else; I’ve said too much already.”

“No, it’s alright; go on, please.” prompted Melanie.

“I really don’t like talking about these types of things…  I just can’t do it; don’t ask me to, please.”

Melanie was beginning to get angry, “Why not?” she demanded.

“Because she’s going to die!”  Heads turned as Cyrus blurted, more loudly than he had intended.

“How could you know that; how could anyone?”

“I’ve seen it! “ Cyrus pointed to his head, “Up here!”

Melanie responded with one word, spoken firmly, “When?”

“I, I don’t know…”  Cyrus paused, “not for another 10 or 15 years.”

“How do you know you’re not wrong?”  Melanie asked.

“I never have been.” Cryus spoke clinically, without emotion.

“How do you do it?”  Melanie still sounded incredulous.

“I don’t know,” Cyrus continued, “but I hate it.”

“How can you say that?  You have a gift, it’s wonderful.”

“No, you don’t understand…” Cyrus searched for the right words, “Everyone is going to die; and I can see it, when, how…”

“What about me?”  Melanie pressed.

“I don’t know…” Cyrus paused, “It different with you; I can’t tell you your future.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“I can’t; I don’t know why.”  Cyrus didn’t know what else to say.  “I just can’t see anything when I look at you; I can’t see anything but… you.”

Melanie was determined to solve the mystery; “Has this ever happened before; with anyone else?”

“No, it’s never happened with anyone else… well; no one else but me.” Cyrus confessed.

Melanie started to respond, but there didn’t seem to be anything else to say.  Cyrus spoke next.  “We should go, it’s about to get pretty crowded in here.”

He got up from the table and Melanie followed his lead.  As they reached the register, Melanie reached for her wallet.  “Let me, please;” Cyrus asked, “I don’t get to spend money very often.”  As he signed his name on the credit card slip, nobody noticed Cyrus adding a $1000 tip.

“Goodnight ya’ll” the waitress said, as yet unaware of her good fortune.

As they walked out, a crowd of around 20 people, freshly emerged from the theatre next door entered the restaurant.  “Can I give you a ride back to your… car?”  Melanie faltered as Cyrus’ car pulled up.  Her confusion grew as he went to the driver’s side door.

“No thanks; it looks like I’ve got a ride already.”

“I guess I’ll see you later then; goodnight.”

“Take care, Melanie.”

Cyrus closed the door.  “Ezra, let’s go home.”

“Very good sir.”

Weekend Fiction - Oracle the Hero

Here is chapter 5 of my science-fiction serial Oracle.  This was the most difficult chapter so far to write.  Please feel free to offer any comments, suggestions or feedback.  Thanks!


Chapter 5; Oracle the Hero

“Good morning sir.”

“Good morning Ezra, go ahead.”

“Very good sir; your client will arrive in 1 hour; shall I start your shower and coffee?”

“Go ahead, Ezra.”

“Very good sir; your client?”

“Go ahead, Ezra.”

“Senator Jacobson, unspecified business.”

As usual with politicians, the senator's staff was tightlipped about the purpose of his visit, but public officials were typically interested in just one thing, reelection.  Mrs. Meyers had asked for a few days off, ostensibly to get away for a weekend; she was actually at an appointment with an oncologist.  Unfortunately she would pass away 13 months from now but Ezra's arranging for her to become a lottery winner six months from now will ensure that her last days are spent comfortably, in a beach house in Mexico.

After his shower, Cyrus found the note Mrs. Meyers had left directing him to the homemade frozen waffles in the freezer.  Though his meeting with Senator Jacobson was predictably short, Cyrus had more charity clients than usual.  He thought of Melanie very little that day.  After the last charity client had left, Cyrus found himself strangely tired from a long day.  As Cyrus lay down to rest in his noisy room, a strange sensation came over him.  He foresaw a man dressed in dark clothes peering through a window.  Hearing a noise in the bushes behind him, the man turned.  The burglar crouched out of sight and hid.

“This is strange.”  Cyrus thought to himself.  Usually, his visions only involved people he knew or happened to be near at the time.  Then he realized that the burglar was outside of Mrs. Thomason house.

“Ezra, open the garage door.”

“Very good sir.”

Though he was unsure what he would do when he arrived, Cyrus knew he had to get to Mrs. Thomason’s house.

On the way, Cyrus focused, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening but without success.  He parked down the street, not wanting to draw attention to himself.  As he stumbled through the bushes in Mrs. Thomason’s yard, Cyrus silently cursed himself for not thinking to bring a flashlight.  With a start, he fell through a gap in the hedge and found himself face-to-face with the man from his vision.

“What do you think you're doing here?”  The thief demanded.

Cyrus started to answer but then he foresaw his opponent leveling a pistol.  Without thinking, he launched himself at the would-be assailant.  Cyrus briefly had the advantage as they tumbled to the ground but the thief was not giving up easily.  Cyrus foresaw a stick being swung a split second before he was struck by the stick itself.  As the thief escaped his grasp, Cyrus foresaw then felt several punches and kicks.  Moments later, Cyrus was on the ground, looking up at the thief who was holding the pistol from his vision.

“See you around, hero.” growled the thief, leveling the pistol at Cyrus.  Before he could fire, there was another loud commotion in the bushes.

“What's going on out there?”  A burly man bellowed as he lumbered across the yard.  The thief dropped his weapon and ran, leaving Cyrus where he lay.

“Hey, I recognize you!  You're that guy that was snooping around here the other day.”  The large man spoke; “I live right next door and I saw you.”

“It's not like that” Cyrus gasped, trying to catch his breath; “I'm trying to help.”

“I suppose that's why you brought a gun, right?”  The man said, stabbing a finger at the pistol on the ground.

“It's not my gun.”  Cyrus tried to reassure the neighbor.

The burly man placed his bulk in between Cyrus and the gun.  “We'll just let the police figure that out, my wife already called them; they're on the way.”

Cyrus spent the next five minutes in awkward silence as the Good Samaritan neighbor paced back and forth, menacingly brandishing a two by four.  Cyrus felt quite relieved when a police cruiser arrived with lights flashing.  A few moments later, he was taken to the police station as a second detective took a statement from the neighbor.

At the police station, Cyrus was ushered into a small, green holding room.  A bored looking officer wearing a faded grey suit questioned him regarding the events of that evening.

“Well, part of your story checks out; your prints aren't on the gun, so we know someone else was there.”

“That's what I tried to tell you,” Cyrus protested, “the other guy was already there; I was trying to help Melanie, er, Mrs. Thomason.”

“Right there, that's the problem;” the officer stopped Cyrus, “how did you know anyone needed help?  You live on the other side of town!”

“That's going to be a little hard to explain.”  Cyrus said.

“Try me; I've got a real active imagination.”  the detective jeered.

Cyrus’ explanation was cut short by the entry of another officer.

“We're ready for the line up, get him out here.”

Cyrus was ushered into a line with five other men and instructed to face a one-way mirror.  A moment later, the procedure was interrupted by a police sergeant.

“This guy is your suspect;” the sergeant protested, “do you have any idea how many cases this guy has helped us solve?”

“What are you talking about Garcia?  The neighbor caught him snooping in this woman's bushes; of course he’s our suspect!” The grey suited officer defended himself.

“I've worked with this guy dozens of times!”  The sergeant continued, “If he says he was there to help, he was there to help.  Send him home right now.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”  The officer said in a derisive tone.

Cyrus exited the police station walking slowly, lost in his thoughts. He looked up when he heard Mrs. Thomason's voice.

“Yoo-hoo; young man!” She called, “That nice sergeant told us all about you trying to help us.”

He turned to see Mrs. Thomason and Melanie near a car.

“Umm, it was nothing.”  Cyrus said, somewhat nervous at seeing Melanie.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Thomason “you have to let us buy you a cup of coffee, that's the least we can do; I won't take no for an answer.”

Mrs. Thomason took Cyrus by the arm, and proceeded to lead him to a nearby coffee shop.

“I'll just have a cup of coffee.”  Cyrus suggested.

“Don't be silly,” Mrs. Thomason said, “you simply must try the apple pie.”

Mrs. Thomason proceeded to order three pieces of apple pie from the waitress.  A few minutes later,  the waitress returned with the pie and coffee.  As they started to eat, Sergeant Garcia entered the shop.  Seeing Cyrus, he approached the table.

“I'm really sorry about tonight,” he apologized; “Detective Henderson thought he was doing his job.”

“It's no problem,” Cyrus reassured the Sergeant; “it could have happened to anyone.”

Mrs. Thomason spoke up next.  “Excuse me, officer.  All the excitement of this evening has got me a little tired out; would you mind terribly driving me home?”  Before Sergeant Garcia could answer, she called out to the waitress.  “Miss, may I have this pie and coffee to go please?"

With no apparent alternative, Sergeant Garcia responded; “I'd be happy to ma'am, my car is right outside.”

Mrs. Thomason departed with her new-found chauffeur, leaving Cyrus and Melanie alone.

Weekend Fiction - Oracle’s Confusion

This is chapter 4 of Oracle, my science fiction serial.  Today, we learn a little bit more about Ezra.  Got comments?  I'd love to hear them!


Chapter 4; Oracle’s Confusion


Though his visit to Mrs. Thomason's house had proved unfruitful, Cyrus was no less determined to solve the mystery surrounding Melanie.  Though his power seemed to be useless in this situation, he had access to other resources.

“Ezra, bring your conversation and counseling modules online.”

“Very good, sir.”

Cyrus had obtained  Ezra from an abandoned government project.  Ezra was an artificial intelligence computer system designed to interact with humans using natural language.  Its original purpose was to perform basic psychoanalysis on soldiers and suffering from PTSD.  It was a miserable failure through no fault of its own.  Most people are simply uncomfortable conversing with a computer.  Ezra's hardware consisted of a dozen racks, each holding 10 server class computers.  For most purposes, only a few of the computers were running at any given time.  In response to Cyrus' command, all 120 units lit up.

“Ezra, I think I'm in love.”

“What makes you say that?” Ezra responded.

“I don't know what else to think, this woman confuses me.”

“Go on.”

“I'm not even sure what love is.”  Cyrus said.

“Love is defined as a strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties.  Do you have any personal ties with this woman?”

Cyrus sighed.  “We have something in common if that's what you mean.  She and I have the only futures I can't see.”

Advanced as it was, certain aspects of Cyrus' life continually escaped Ezra.  “The only way to know the future is to experience it.”

“I wish that was true.” Cyrus responded.

Ezra either paused meaningfully or struggled to process Cyrus’ statement.  “If you do not have personal ties with her, you must develop them if love is the intended goal.”

“So you're saying we should spend time together?”

“That seems like a wise course of action.”  Ezra sounded satisfied with itself, if that was possible.

“Thank you, as always, for your help; return to standard operations mode.”

In its climate controlled server room, Ezra's activity level returned to normal.  Cyrus was more determined than ever that he would see Melanie again.

Weekend Fiction - Oracle’s Dilemma

This is chapter 3 of my science fiction serial, Oracle.  Now, we're getting deeper into the mystery surrounding Melanie.  As always I greatly appreciate any feedback.  Thanks!

Chapter 3; Oracle’s Dilemma


At 3 am, Cyrus finally gave up on sleep.  It seemed that the unanswered questions in his mind simply would not wait for the morning.

“Ezra?”

“Good morning sir; it’s 3 AM; your schedule?”

“No, Ezra; search biographical information of Melanie Thomason; 3 mile radius.”

“Two results; Melanie R. Thomason, age 52 and Melanie Thomason, age 8.”

Neither of those women could possibly be Mrs. Thomason’s niece.  “Dismissed, Ezra.”

Cyrus was determined to unravel the mystery surrounding Melanie.  He considered calling in a favor from one of the several private investigators he had assisted, but felt wrong about having anyone spy on her.  Finally, he decided.  Cyrus had never needed to ask anyone for information about someone; he had no intention of breaking that pattern.

“Ezra; turn off the lights.”

“Very good sir.”

Cyrus sat down at his desk and turned off the radio, for the first time in years.  He had once learned some meditation techniques hoping to quiet the noise in his mind.  He pictured Melanie's face in his mind.  He began to focus on breathing, deeply and slowly.  He thought back to Melanie helping Mrs. Thomason rescue the cat.

“Concentrate, concentrate...  ”

Cyrus whispered to himself.  It was no use.  The matter how hard he tried, Cyrus could not quiet the noise in his mind.  His mind constantly jumped from scene to scene of seemingly anyone except Melanie.  After about 10 minutes of focused effort, Cyrus was exhausted.  He shoved his chair back angrily and got up from his desk.

“Ezra; turn on the lights, now!”  Cyrus said, angrily.

“Very good sir.”

As Cyrus stepped away from his desk, he tripped and fell over a pile of discarded clothes.  He struck his head on a bedside table and fell to the floor, unconscious.

Cyrus awoke in silence.  When he opened his eyes he found himself in an unfamiliar place.  He was standing in a featureless expanse of grey, facing an enormous white wall that stretched as far as he could see to his left and right.  The top of the wall was obscured by grey mist.  Set in the wall were two heavy wooden doors.

“Hello, can anyone hear me?  Hello, HELLO! ”

Cyrus' cries went unanswered.  He walked to the door on the left and opened it to see a featureless grey expanse seemingly identical to the place he now stood.  Somewhat apprehensive now, Cyrus strode to the other door from behind this door he could hear a multitude of voices, all speaking at once.  Somehow, he was certain that Melanie was behind this door.  He reached for the door, grasping the heavy iron hoop.  The door would not open.  He struggled with all his strength with the door but the door would not budge.  He pounded the door as hard as he could but to no avail.

“Melanie!  I'm coming; I'll get you out of there. ”

Cyrus raced back to the other door but it slammed shut just as he reached it.  Going back to the door on the right, Cyrus reached to open it.  This time it opened easily to discharge a crowd of people, hundreds of them fitting every description.

“Melanie!  Where are you? ”

Cyrus is interrupted by the steady stream of chatter coming from the people in the crowd.  They surrounded him, all shouting questions at once.

“How long do I have?” said an old man with a walker.

“When am I going to die?” came from a woman in a business suit.

A sickly looking child asked, “Will it hurt when I die?”

A woman in a hospital gown screamed, “How can you stand there and watch me die?”

“Do something, save me!” cried a woman who looked like she had been beaten.

“I can't help you; it's not my fault!” Cyrus responded.

The people just continued shouting, crowding around Cyrus.  As he struggled to escape from a soldier with a battered rifle, he fell, the crowd closing in around him.  Cyrus' world went dark as he passed out.

“Good morning sir.”

Cyrus woke up screaming, drenched in sweat.

“Good morning sir.”

“Ezra… Ezra, it was just a dream.” Cyrus said, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Good morning sir.”

“Go ahead, Ezra; I’m awake now.”

“Very good sir; your client will arrive in 2 hours; shall I start your shower and coffee?”

“Go ahead, Ezra, extra hot shower today please.”

“Very good sir; your client?”

“Go ahead, Ezra.”

“General McDermott, to discuss Project Threshold.”

The idea of meeting with General McDermott wasn’t a pleasant thought.  Cyrus knew that he would spend nearly 4 hours listening to the General.  He suspected that the General was more interested in having a captive audience than in Project Threshold.  Cyrus had assured him last time that the project would be approved by Congress, but it seemed that the military never ran out of questions… or stories.

As Cyrus ate his breakfast of French toast and sausage, he found his thoughts again drifting back to Mrs. Thomason’s niece.  What it was that made her different from every other person he had ever known?  Finishing his breakfast, he resolved that he would figure this mystery out.

By the time General McDermott finished talking, it was already past lunch time.  Cyrus briefly considered skipping the usual round of charity clients, but something inside him wouldn’t let him.  He actually did enjoy some of them; they were the closest thing he had to friends.  He seemed to have a large amount of clients who had questions about their love life.  He predicted the future for other people all afternoon, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Melanie; thinking of how we wasn’t able to see anything about her.  When he was done with his last charity client of the day, he found himself driving to Mrs. Thomason’s house.

Mrs. Thomason lived on a tree-lined cul-de-sac, just off a busy street.  Cyrus stood on the porch of Mrs. Thomason’s house.  He was intending to ring the doorbell, but was having difficulty getting over his nervousness.  He simply couldn’t be certain of whether Melanie was home or not.  Looking into Mrs. Thomason’s immediate future didn’t help either.  He was able to see her answering the doorbell in about 19 seconds, but other than that; Mrs. Thomason would simply tell him that Melanie lived in her guest house, and that she didn’t know if her niece was home or not.  It occurred briefly to him that he could simply bypass speaking to Mrs. Thomason and go straight to the guest house, but he wasn’t certain of quite the affect that would have on the situation; he wasn’t even certain if he could do something other than he had seen in Mrs. Thomason’s future.  As he mentally debated the possibilities, he absentmindedly stretched out his hand and hit the doorbell button.

“Just a moment please.”  Mrs. Thomason’s voice was barely audible over the noise of the street.  Seeing Cyrus at the door, she seemed confused.  “Are you here about Mr. Fluff?  We found him right where you said he would be.”

“I… No, actually I was wondering… is Melanie here?”

“Oh, Melanie doesn’t actually live here,” Mrs. Thomason replied; “she lives in my guest house and I’m not sure if she’s home or not.”

Cyrus followed the rest of the script of his conversation with Mrs. Thomason mindlessly, shortly finding himself alone again on her doorstep.

For some reason, Cyrus couldn’t bring himself to go and knock on the door of the guesthouse.  Without being certain of the outcome, he was unsure how to proceed.  He finally left when he foresaw a neighbor dialing the police about the strange man loitering at Mrs. Thomason’s door.

Weekend Fiction - Oracle Meets a Stranger

This is chapter 2 of my science fiction serial, Oracle.  This time, we actually start to have a plot.  As always I greatly appreciate any feedback.  Thanks!

Chapter 2; Oracle Meets a Stranger


“Good morning sir.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Good morning sir.”

“Shut up!”

“Good morning sir.”

“Go ahead, Ezra.”

“Very good sir; your first client will arrive in 2 hours; shall I start your shower and coffee?”

“Go ahead, Ezra.””

“Very good sir; your client?”

“Go ahead, Ezra.””

“Representatives from ExNect corp regarding the upcoming merger with AT-Tec.”

“Dismissed, Ezra.”

Cyrus dismissed Ezra, his computerized assistant.  His shower was ready, with static blaring from the integrated speakers and flashing colors on the screens.  After showering and dressing, Cyrus put on a set of comfortable clothes and went to the kitchen for his coffee and breakfast.  Looking forward, he saw Mrs. Meyers, his housekeeper cleaning up the remains of his waffles and eggs.  He didn’t like waffles, but Mrs. Meyers was such a great housekeeper that he didn’t have the heart to tell her.  He wasn’t looking forward to hiring her replacement seven months from now.  At least he knew Mrs. Meyers wouldn’t suffer when she died in her sleep early on that Sunday morning.

Cyrus reassured the executives from ExNect that the merger with AT-Tec would be wildly successful.  The SEC wouldn’t even have a problem with the merger.  He saw the stock price rising to unprecedented highs, but; since no one asked; he didn’t mention that anyone who held on to the stock for longer than 8 months and 3 days would end up losing far more than they had gained.

After eating a corned beef sandwich (another of Mrs. Meyers’ favorite selections) for lunch, Cyrus prepared for the rest of his day, answering questions for the charity clients who were always lined up outside of the guest house, waiting for him.  He anticipated having a long day with them today.

There were no surprises among the clients at his door.

“Will we have a boy or a girl?”

“Should we buy the house down the street or move across the country?”

Even though he never answered questions about lottery numbers and death anymore, nearly half of his clients wanted to ask.  After the third person in a row asked about the SuperBall jackpot numbers, Cyrus was ready to call it a day.  The elderly woman who was waiting for him looked very frail though, and he knew that her question was easy to answer.

“What can I help you with today?” Cyrus asked; humoring Mrs. Thomason by asking.

“I know this may sound like a silly question,” she faltered; “but I seem to have lost my cat.  I’ve been looking for him everywhere for 2 days.”

Cyrus looked forward and saw Mrs. Thomason with an attractive woman, opening a battered trunk to release a very angry cat.

“Do you have an old trunk at your house?” he asked.

“Why yes, I do… how on earth could Mr. Fluff had gotten in there though?”

Cyrus was about to answer, but then the cat rescuer from the future walked through the door.  He found himself suddenly speechless; how had he not seen Mrs. Thomason’s niece?  Cyrus struggled to find something to say, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how he could have been surprised by the sudden appearance of this woman.

Sensing his confusion, the woman decided to take action.  “I’m Melanie,” she said, extending her hand.

“I’m Cyrus” he responded, shaking her hand.  He was unsure of what to do next; he had never met a stranger before.

Weekend Fiction - Introduction to Oracle

This is chapter 1 of my science fiction serial, Oracle.  As always I greatly appreciate any feedback.  Thanks!

Chapter 1; Introduction to Oracle

I am alone.  It is only here, in my home where I can have any peace.  My radio is tuned to static, turned to a thundering volume.  A few strategically placed strobes flash sporadically, at random intervals.  They keep me distracted, so I don’t have to listen to the voices.

I waste so much time searching for things I lose, I really should clean up; but if I don’t keep myself busy, I won’t be able to function.  Free time is my enemy.  In my quiet times, there is nothing but noise.  Images of suffering, of death, bombard me constantly.  I find no peace in quiet, only struggle.

My ability has made me rich; I have everything I could ever buy.  I’ve traveled the entire world and lived a life that other people only dream of.  I have more money than I could ever spend in my lifetime.  I don’t even care about the money though; all I need is enough to keep filled with food and noise.

People tell me that they love me; they tell me that they envy me.  Other people tell me that I am demon possessed, that I am cursed.   Others brand me as a prophet, as the anti-Christ or as the devil himself, taken on human form.  For many years now, my greatest wish has been that I could give my ability away, that someone else could bear my burden, even for a day.

My business cards say simply ‘Oracle’.  No one really seems to care about my name; Oracle is plenty of information for my clients and I don’t have any friends.

I predict the future.  Other people may claim to predict the future, but I do.  I am the only person I know that is never wrong; 100% of the things that I predict actually happen. I predict the future, and I solve problems.  I have solved every problem ever given to me.  It’s almost frighteningly easy for me; I simply look ahead for the solution and steal the answer from the future.

I have never been wrong.  I predict stock prices, the weather, anything at all.  I make predictions for corporations and they pay ridiculous sums of money for the service.  Politicians hire me to advise campaigns.  I give them a single word of advice; yes or no, and they are desperate to pay me.  I regularly meet with military clients; we discuss tactics, new weapon systems, and outcomes of wars that haven’t happened yet.

I should have been happy, earning absurdly large amounts of money to do the simplest tasks, but I was miserable.  Then it somehow got much worse.  I was hired by a wealthy gentleman who wanted to know the exact circumstances of his own death.  I had never thought about predicting a death before; now I see death constantly.  I have to fight to keep death out of my mind.  That is where the noise comes in.  I try to drown out the noise inside my head with noise outside.  Static, flashing lights; these are my sources of comfort.  Sometimes they work better than others.

I had a name once.  I was a child once.  My ability used to be fun.  I always knew where everybody was when we played hide and seek.  I was always the winner at Easter egg hunts.  In school, I could see my teachers grading tests and copy the correct answers.

In my twenties, life started getting worse.  Nothing was ever challenging.  I could never meet new people, new places were intimately familiar.  And everywhere I went there were more and more people.  I became fixated on the endless suffering and death!  I was struck by the idea that every person I ever saw was going to die, and I was burdened with knowing the exact time and circumstances of their death.  I tried everything I could to find peace, but the more I struggled, the worse I felt.

Slowly, my friends disappeared.  I had plenty of people that claimed to enjoy my company, but the fact that I helped them make billions of dollars contributed to that.  I was flooded with marriage proposals, but romance was impossible for me.  ‘Til death do us part’ seems to lose meaning when you know exactly how long that is.  If anyone had any ulterior motive in befriending me (and everyone did), I saw it.  After asking me to tell them the most intimate details of the future, they would act as if they cared about me and somehow believe that I wouldn’t see through them.

I tried everything I could think of to be rid of my power.  I knew that I would be happy if I could just be rid of it; I could be normal, like everyone else.

I dreamed of having a normal life.  I dreamed of having a wife; having children and growing old.  In my dreams, friends were never far away.  I had true friends that didn’t like me for what I could do for them, but just because they were my friends.  I saw myself at peace, napping quietly in my hammock while the children played.

My future however was the one thing I wasn’t sure about.  I could read the future for everyone else, but my own future remained a mystery.  I don’t know why I am not allowed to see my future, but it is possibly my greatest blessing, and my greatest curse.  Perhaps my life would be more bearable if I knew that something would change soon, or even if I knew I didn’t have much longer to live.  On the other hand though; I wasn’t sure how the knowledge of my own death would affect me.  It’s nearly more than I can bear to see the death of others, I don’t know if I could handle seeing my own.  For all I know, I might be immortal.  That could be the most horrible future of all.

The greatest gift I could receive would be surprise.  I’ve never been surprised by anything.  I’ve never had a surprise party, I’ve never been surprised by a plot twist in a book or a movie.  Living the life that others dream of held no excitement for me, only prolonged torture away from my noise.

What is my greatest hope?  I wish I could hope.  People tell me to trust in god; they tell me that god is my only hope.  How can I of all people put my trust in something I can’t see?  I’ve never seen anything outside of the physical realm.  I’ve seen the deaths of millions of people, and I’ve never seen a death that didn’t lead to somebone suffering.  If I could see any reason for hope; I could live happily.  The only thing that I have to hope in is my own ability.  I know that my ability will always be there for me, always provide for me.  If I can’t have joy, romance, excitement or hope, at least I will have security.

I have a full schedule today; I have a meeting with a high profile client.  After my paying clients, I do several hours of charity each day.  I don’t advertise, but there are always people waiting at my door, wanting to know this or that bit of their future.  They always ask the simple things; will I have a healthy baby, will I win the lottery, will she say ‘yes’…  I answer their questions until I can’t take any more; then it is back to my room, back to my noise and the semblance of peace it brings me.

Thankfully, I don’t dream anymore.

Weekend Fiction - Oracle Foreword

In this weeks edition of weekend fiction, I'm starting something new.  I've been working on a longer, sci-fi story and I'll be posting a chapter each week.  First up is a poem that I'm using as the foreword.  I'd appreciate any feedback, thanks; enjoy.

Oracle

I am Oracle
I know who you are
I know your future

I am Oracle
I can have no peace
Noise is my friend

I am Oracle
You don't need to speak
You'll get your answer

I am Oracle
I already see your life
So much suffering

I am Oracle
What is your wish
What can I tell you

I am Oracle
Run from me
You don't really want to know

I am Oracle
I am lonely
I am lost

I am Oracle
My future is dark
I have no vision

I am Oracle
What can I say
I have no peace for you