Forever Lego
There is a little snapshot of heaven lingering in the digital mist.
She’d been happy then, smile genuine,
if somewhat forced; Stretched slightly for the benefit of the camera.
To impress those she barely knew.
Those who could only judge by what they saw through the pixelated window of her life.
Why did it matter what they thought?
She could not say.
It’s still there now, that little snapshot of heaven,
suspended amongst the protocols, and sub-net-masks.
Motionless, but not effortless,
or perhaps it’s not stationary at all,
maybe its whirling around at 3400 rpm on a finely polished mirrored disc.
Either way, it’s there and available to anyone at anytime.
Data doesn’t rest.
It doesn’t take holidays, or have hangovers and forget what you told it the night before.
It will not lie but only amplify the lie you feed it.
Her little snapshot of heaven, however it’s stored,
sits there, frame to frame with everyone else’s.
All these moments click together like Lego bricks.
They build walls.
Walls become buildings, and buildings becomes cities.
Who does the city belong to?
Everyone she’d guess.
But that girl’s city is bigger, better, her bricks more tanned and supple and voluptuously curved.
That girl’s city is full of hansom people with defined muscles and fast cars.
And that couple’s city, crammed with adorable videos, their little one sitting on a beige sofa,
dressed in a cute onesie with the slogan ‘just like dad.’
Some people watch and smile with joy, while others cry in jealously for what they cannot have.
These bricks can never be destroyed.
If we all burned or drowned or died from lack of company,
those bricks would still be there.
If the sky tore open and the clouds rained nuclear thunder,
those bricks would still be there.
Dented and buckled, perhaps
but still present.
Those moments captured by each brick will remain,
forever.
Maybe that’s why it matters.
Transmitted
I was in my flat in Plymouth when my friend Ralphy FaceTimed me from the back of his van at a beach in Perth, Australia. In the 1950’s teleportation was considered impossible. We chatted, he played me a new tune he’d composed on his guitar. Pure fantasy, a sci-fi writers wet dream. I watched the furrows deepen on his forehead as he concentrated on the cords. I could see his duvet crumpled in the corner, the stains on his mattress, the brand of orange juice he’d been drinking. But now it’s here, people take teleportation for granted. I could hear the voices of other travellers. I saw the skaggy grey-haired car-park dog. Boris they called him, lived off scraps of food and strokes from random strangers. The air is saturated with billions of people being transmitted. Me and Ralphy talked, we asked each other silly questions and gave silly answers. In much the same way we had before he moved. We probably talk more now, then when he lived down the street. It’s nice to stay connected. We chatted until the breaks came in and it was time for him to surf. Then just like that, I was back in my 1 bedroom flat in Plymouth, alone. I always wondered about Boris after that day, I wondered who was feeding him, running their hands through his matted grey fur.
Snowflakes
They say people are snowflakes nowadays. That they don’t know how to survive. That they are weak and pathetic or stupid and dumb. Not worthy of space on our overcrowded planet. But we are all just learning how to deal with the challenges of our generation.
I’m glad it’s not socially acceptable for my parents to hit me. Or that I don’t have to shit in a brick outbuilding. Cold and windy, dark spiders clinging to thick silvery webs overhead.
Those who grew up in the seventies perhaps think that makes me weak. Is wanting things to be better than they were before is a sign of weakness?
The fact is we are constantly evolving.
In the Middle Ages they played football with actual human heads. Now we stop play when people receive racist chants.
I’m glad that we are trying not to judge people on their gender, or sexuality, or race, or the level of opportunity they’ve been lucky enough to receive.
The real snowflakes are the ones that can’t, or won’t, embrace change.
The stubborn hotheaded angry people who want everyone else’s life to be just as horrible and miserable as theirs. Kindness should be admired more than wealth. So should empathy. Those people who make selfless acts and don’t boast about them to anyone else.
If we are snowflakes then let the world freeze.
It’s better than a burning pit of anger and hate.
Author’s Biography
Nathan studied creative writing in Plymouth and works as an engineer. He’s performed poetry at the Barbican Theatre. His writing has appeared in multiple publications. He works at the UK’s deepest aquarium. The fish don’t really care about his stories, but he hopes to find a literary agent that does.
